sv 


\  • 


DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 


DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES 


BY 


T.    R.   SULLIVAN 


HORATIO.  —  O  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous  strange ! 
HAMLET.  —  And  therefore  as  a  stranger  give  it  welcome. 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCBIBXEB'S   SONS 
1890 


Copyright,  1890 
BY  CHARLES  SCKIBNEK'S  SONS 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDOE 


TO    THE   MEMORY   OF 

ffi%  33r0tfjer, 
HENRY    DORR     SULLIVAN. 


I^QO-t  " 
/  o/C  J 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  LOST  REMBRANDT     . i 

OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  GRANITE 41 

"CORDON!" 87 

THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS .  108 

THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER 144 

MAESTRO  AMBROGIO 186 

THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS  .....  218 


DAY   AND   NIGHT  STORIES. 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT. 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death. 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

r  I  ^HE  lovely  old  city  of  The  Hague,  now,  as  al- 
J-  ways,  withdrawn  from  the  vulgarizing  influ 
ences  of  commerce,  has  an  indescribable  air  of 
refinement,  much  dwelt  upon  in  the  books  and 
peculiarly  its  own.  This  is  due,  as  any  writer  of 
guides  will  bear  me  out  in  saying,  to  the  fact  that 
the  town  grew  up  around  the  royal  hunting-box, 
and  has  been,  since  Holland  was,  the  favorite  re 
sort  of  Dutch  princes.  And  the  same  writer  will 
probably  go  on  to  tell  you  that  by  leaving  your 
hotel  at  six  A.M.,  you  can  in  one  day  see  it  all, — 
all,  even  to  its  flippant  watering-place,  two  miles 
off,  among  the  dunes  on  the  melancholy  shore  of 
the  North  Sea.  And  so,  with  this  impression  of 
dulness  setting  as  it  were  the  seal  upon  his  own, 
he  will  cheerfully  whirl  you  away  to  view  the  Ley- 
den  University  and  the  Haarlem  tulips,  with  no 

i 


2  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

effort  whatsoever,  from  the  window  of  your  railway 
carriage. 

But  if  you  are  of  a  certain  age,  and  temperate  ; 
if  time  has  touched  you  gently,  inclining  you  to 
be  sad  and  civil,  like  Malvolio  ;  if  you  are  fond  of 
the  light  that  falls  aslant  into  old  pictures  ;  and 
if,  above  all,  the  commercial  spirit  of  your  own  en 
terprising  nation  often  oppresses  and  disheartens 
you,  —  why,  then  you  will  walk  leisurely  back  from 
Scheveningen  over  the  ancient  dike,  that  is  really 
a  long,  straight,  lofty  arbor  of  interlacing  elm- 
branches  ;  and  you  will  wonder  at  the  contentment 
in  the  faces  of  the  peasant  women,  and  at  the  bar 
baric  gilded  crowns  and  ear-rings  which  they  wear. 
On  either  hand  you  will  catch  glimpses  of  sunny 
gardens,  and  choose  more  than  one  villa  you  would 
be  glad  to  call  your  own  ;  while  the  trees  go  on 
before  you,  in  among  the  broad  canals  and  splendid 
city  squares,  where  all  the  houses  seem  palaces, 
built  for  comfort,  with  no  state  apartments  in  them, 
until  a  few  steps  more  have  brought  you  to  the  bor 
der  of  the  shadowy  wood,  upon  which  the  old  hunt 
ing-seat  now  encroaches.  Here  are  acres  of  superb 
beeches,  with  mossy  trunks  and  gnarled  roots, 
recalling  some  enchanted  forest  of  the  brothers 
Grimm,  and  that  picture  of  it  left  over  in  your 
memory  from  the  pantomime  of  childhood ;  only 
now  you  find  the  dreadful  abode  of  fabulous  mon 
sters  and  misshapen  goblins  haunted  merely  by  an 
invisible  chorus  of  blackbirds,  too  far  above  your 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  3 

head  to  fear  or  even  to  heed  you.  Who  calls  that 
place  dull  where  town  and  country  meet  upon  such 
terras  ?  Forgive  the  Dutchmen,  for  the  moment, 
if  they  take  their  pleasures  somewhat  sadly,  as 
the  English  do.  It  is  true  that  the  city's  one  poor 
theatre  is  closed  in  this  warm  June  weather.  But 
the  train  is  always  panting  to  take  you  back  to 
Paris  :  stay  here  a  little  longer,  if  only  for  a  day 
or  two. 

The  Hague  has  its  open  jewel-casket,  and  therein 
its  captain-jewel.  When  you  make  your  first  visit 
to  Maurice  of  Nassau's  house,  now  transformed  into 
a  museum,  you  will  pass  through  certain  anterooms, 
where  the  two  wives  of  Rubens,  his  father-confessor, 
a  glorious  Faun  and  Nymph  of  Jordaens,  and  a 
likeness  of  William  of  Orange,  by  some  unknown 
but  strong  and  tender  hand,  will  all  delight  you. 
Then,  at  the  top  of  the  great  staircase  you  will 
hesitate  for  a  moment,  as  one  often  does  in  all  the 
galleries,  wondering  which  way  to  turn.  A  look  to 
the  left  will  decide  the  question.  There  is  the  load 
star  ;  no  other  guide  is  needed.  You  stand  a  long 
time  before  it,  and  turn  away  only  to  come  back. 
You  are  surrounded  by  fine  pictures,  half  of  them 
to  be  forgotten  within  the  next  hour  ;  but  this  one 
you  will  remember  through  all  the  after  years. 

It  is  the  "  Lesson  in  Anatomy  "  of  Rembrandt. 
A  famous  surgeon  is  explaining  to  five  brothers  of 
his  guild  the  muscles  in  the  arm  of  a  subject  upon 
the  dissecting-table.  And  not  to  these  eager  listen- 


4  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

ers  alone  are  the  words  and  gesture  of  the  man 
directed  ;  for  he  stands  in  a  vaulted  hall,  and  looks 
beyond  you  to  the  imaginary  audience,  of  which, 
losing  your  own  identity,  you  for  the  time  being 
form  a  part.  All  the  world  knows  this  master 
piece  from  countless  reproductions  ;  but  only  those 
who  have  seen  the  picture  can  fully  understand  the 
charm  in  the  painter's  noble  treatment  of  it  that 
compels  one  to  overlook  its  disagreeable  motive. 

The  light  streams  down  upon  the  dead  man ;  yet 
you  hardly  know  he  is  there.  It  is  death,  indeed. 
and  painted  so  truthfully  that  to  shut  out  the  liv 
ing  faces  is  to  shudder  at  it.  Bring  them  back, 
and  this  central  object  which  so  fixes  their  atten 
tion  has  no  power  upon  yours.  They  glow  with 
color,  they  breathe  ;  you  are  ready  to  swear  that 
one  has  moved  a  little.  Hark  !  the  lecturer  has 
spoken.  Alas !  his  voice  has  been  hushed  for 
more  than  two  centuries.  All  these  that  look 
have  become  even  as  the  thing  they  look  at ;  their 
very  dust  is  now  unrecognizable.  And  while  the 
beauty  of  this  life  completely  fills  your  thought, 
all  life's  sadness,  all  the  mystery  of  death,  lie  on 
the  canvas  there  before  you. 

One  day,  on  my  way  out  of  the  gallery,  I  turned 
back  for  another  look  at  the  Rembrandt.  The 
noon  light  was  superb,  and  there  was  no  one  about ; 
so  I  stayed  on,  absorbed  in  the  picture,  and  study 
ing  it  from  every  possible  point  of  view.  At  last, 
determined  to  go,  I  made  some  commonplace  excla- 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  5 

mation  of  delight  or  regret,  speaking  aloud,  as  when 
alone  one  may  without  undue  absence  of  mind.  A 
slight  movement  behind  me  brought  me  to  myself, 
and  looking  over  my  shoulder  I  saw  that  I  had 
been  overheard  by  a  little  gray,  old  man,  who  had 
come  quietly  into  the  room  by  another  door.  He 
was  plainly  dressed,  closely  shaven,  and  his  some 
what  heavy  features  had  nothing  distinctive  about 
them  ;  yet  1  felt  sure  that  I  had  seen  him  before. 
But  one  often  has  this  fancy,  and  I  dismissed  it  at 
once,  even  though  I  had  caught  him  in  the  act  of 
eying  me  curiously  ;  for  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  he 
was  a  Dutchman,  and  my  acquaintance  in  Holland 
was  limited  to  landlords  and  bankers,  with  an  occa 
sional  porter  or  two.  The  man  turned  from  me  to 
the  Rembrandt  almost  immediately,  and  I  could 
only  be  provoked  with  myself  for  my  small  display 
of  emotion.  This  had  amused  him,  naturally.  I 
must  be  more  self-contained  in  future.  With  these 
mental  notes  I  went  away. 

But  the  next  day  and  the  day  after  I  found  him 
there  again.  Then,  to  avoid  him,  I  changed  the 
hour  of  my  daily  visit ;  to  no  purpose.  Whenever 
I  went  to  the  gallery,  this  strange  companion  was 
sure  to  make  his  appearance  before  I  left  it.  I 
tried  not  to  notice  him,  and  sometimes  he  hardly 
noticed  me ;  but  once  or  twice  I  could  not  help 
observing  that  he  seemed  pleased  when  we  met,  as 
usual,  in  the  Rembrandt  room.  He  never  spoke, 
never  saluted  me,  never  sought  in  any  way  to  make 


6  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

his  presence  an  intrusion.  He  irritated  me,  never 
theless.  I  could  no  more  see  my  favorite  picture 
apart  from  this  gray  shadow  than  I  could  stand  in 
the  sunlight  and  escape  my  own. 

I  pointed  him  out  to  each  of  the  custodians  in 
turn.  They  all  agreed  in  recognizing  him  as  a 
familiar  creature,  but  none  knew  his  name.  If  I 
expressed  surprise,  or  questioned  further,  I  was 
either  politely  referred  to  the  visitors'  book,  —  that 
labyrinth  without  a  clew,  —  or  I  was  given,  in  im 
perfect  English,  a  summary  of  the  custodial  duties, 
of  which  a  personal  acquaintance  with  all  mankind 
had  never  been  reckoned  one.  He  did  no  injury  ; 
he  molested  nobody.  Upon  these  conditions  the 
gallery  was  open  to  him.  What  would  I  have  ? 

What,  indeed  ?  I  could  complain  of  nothing ; 
the  annoyance  was  of  my  own  making.  Why 
should  this  man  dog  my  steps  with  no  apparent 
purpose  ?  Could  it  be  a  case  of  mistaken  identity  ? 
Was  I,  through  a  chance  resemblance,  in  danger 
of  arrest  for  some  extraordinary  crime  ?  No.  Were 
I  really  shadowed,  in  that  sense  of  the  word,  I 
should  be  the  last  to  know  it.  Besides,  I  had  be 
come  convinced  that  my  first  impression  was  cor 
rect,  and  that  I  had  of  the  man  some  knowledge 
earlier  than  any  I  could  now  recall.  Moreover,  he 
emphasized  himself,  so  to  speak,  by  never  leaving 
the  gallery  before  me.  Once  I  waited  in  a  remote 
corner  until  the  hour  of  closing,  with  the  convic 
tion  that  this  time  he  would  be  forced  to  take  the 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  7 

lead.  When  I  ventured  out  it  was  to  find  him 
standing,  with  the  rigid  patience  of  a  lackey,  near 
the  head  of  the  staircase.  At  the  sight  of  me  he 
drew  back  with  a  courteous  gesture  that  was  al 
most  servile.  Further  persistence  on  my  part 
would  involve  conversation,  perhaps  fellowship. 
I  accepted  the  situation,  and  went  first,  lifting  my 
hat  formally.  At  the  door  I  looked  back  and  saw 
him  slowly  following  ;  but  I  had  already  passed 
out  of  his  thoughts,  and  my  look  was  not  returned. 

1  might  have  played  the  shadow  in  my  turn,  and 
watching  my  chance,  have  dogged  him  to  his  own 
door.  But  this  scheme,  I  argued,  if  detected,  would 
lead  me  into  endless  complication  ;  if  carried  out 
successfully,  it  could  avail  me  little,  —  I  might  learn 
his  address,  his  occupation,  perhaps  his  name,  for 
all  which,  as  I  persuaded  myself,  I  cared  next  to 
nothing.  I  wanted  to  ignore  him,  to  forget  him ; 
but  I  was  not  long  permitted  to  do  either. 

One  evening  after  dinner  I  strolled  lazily  away 
from  the  hotel-porch  to  smoke  my  cigar  in  the 
gathering  twilight  upon  the  shore  of  the  Vyver. 
This  pretty  sheet  of  water  lies  in  the  centre  of  all 
things,  and  has,  to  mark  its  own  central  point,  a 
little  mossy  island,  around  which  many  garrulous 
ducks  and  stately  swans  go  always  gliding,  —  as  if 
they  bore  in  those  unruffled  breasts  vague  longings 
vaster  than  their  appetites,  and  less  likely  to  be 
satisfied.  On  one  side  the  irregular,  mediaeval 
Palace  of  the  Binnenhof  springs  directly  from  the 


8  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

water,  and  throws  back  upon  the  waveless  surface 
a  reflection  that  seems  to  sink  deeper  than  its  own 
foundations.  There  are  strange  gate-ways  and 
high-pitched  roofs  and  oddly  ornamented  towers  ; 
while,  farther  off,  the  great  Church  of  St.  Jacob 
thrusts  itself  up  from  the  humming  market-place  ; 
and  opposite  the  palace,  a  broad,  shady  walk  runs 
the  whole  length  of  the  Vyver,  with  now  and  then 
a  seat,  where  a  man  may  take  his  ease  and  watch 
all  this,  and  let  the  great  world  hum  on  in  the  dis 
tance.  And  if  he  remembers  that  he  is  a  little 
lonely,  just  a  very  little,  when  the  stars  come  out, 
and  the  recesses  of  the  Binnenhof  grow  deep 
and  black  under  his  eyes,  why  then  that  tinge  of 
loneliness  suits  the  place  and  helps  it,  so  long 
as  the  pain  does  not  prove  acute  enough  to  be 
unbearable. 

Upon  this  memorable  evening  I  found  the  Vy  ver- 
berg  crowded  with  good  city  folk,  walking  sedately 
up  and  down  under  the  trees.  They  looked  so  dull 
that,  thankful  for  not  knowing  them,  I  turned  back 
to  the  ducks  and  muttered  Voltaire's  malicious 
marginal  note  upon  his  life  in  Holland,  "  Canaux, 
canards,  canaille  !  "  Here  was  his  picture,  repro 
ducing  itself  in  little,  to  perfection.  Then  the  light 
waned,  and  the  throng  gradually  dispersed  ;  until, 
at  the  end  of  my  second  cigar,  I  wras  left  almost 
alone.  I  smoked  on,  trying  to  lose  myself  in  my 
thoughts.  But  night  came  down  with  a  rush,  for 
there  was  no  moon ;  and  it  brought  up  my  wander- 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  9 

ing  senses  more  than  once  with  a  round  turn.  The 
stars  grew  brilliant,  and  the  lamps  cast  sharp  lines 
of  light  into  the  water.  It  \vas  picturesque,  but 
disagreeably  damp  and  chilly  too.  I  shivered  a 
little  ;  then  I  thought  of  the  homely  saying  that  a 
man  shivers  when  a  step  has  been  taken  some 
where,  a  long  way  off,  upon  the  spot  of  earth  des 
tined  for  his  grave  ;  and  at  this  not  over-cheerful 
suggestion  I  shivered  again.  "  I  shall  catch  my 
death,"  I  mentally  predicted.  The  cigar  was  bitter ; 
I  tossed  it  away,  and  got  up  to  go. 

As  I  turned  out  into  the  path  I  saw  a  man  mov 
ing  slowly  toward  me  in  the  darkness  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  basin.  At  the  first  glimpse  of  his 
figure  two  thoughts  came  to  me  like  successive 
lightning  flashes,  —  that  I  had  never  encountered 
my  tormenting  shadow  in  the  open  air,  and  that 
this  was  he.  I  stood  still.  The  light  from  one  of 
the  street-lamps  must  have  fallen  upon  my  face  ; 
for  as  the  man  came  nearer,  he  looked  up,  saw  me, 
and  starting  a  little,  lost  his  balance  and  stepped 
back  into  the  water  of  the  Vyver. 

I  knew  that  it  was  very  shallow;  but  of  course 
I  dashed  forward  and  helped  him  out.  He  had 
fallen  flat,  and  I  found  him  thoroughly  limp  and 
wet.  He  shivered,  and  his  hands  were  cold.  To 
my  surprise  he  thanked  me  in  good  English,  speak 
ing  very  simply;  and  his  voice  was  decidedly 
agreeable.  He  did  not  laugh  or  even  smile  at 
his  accident ;  yet  he  treated  it  lightly,  and  his 


10  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

way  of  taking  it  made  me  forget  its  ludicrous 
side. 

"  I  will  find  you  a  carriage,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  should  walk,  it  is  better.  I  am 
cold.'" 

"  But  not  alone.     That  will  not  do." 

And  thereupon,  forgetting  my  former  antipathy, 
I  pulled  out  my  card  and  actually  offered  to  walk 
home  with  him. 

He  looked  at  the  card  and  read  the  name,  as  we 
stood  there  under  the  lamp. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  are  at  the  Marshal  Tur- 
enne.  I  have  no  card  about  me ;  but  I  am  called 
Lucas  Grafman.  You  are  very  kind.  I  could  go 
alone,  yet  I  shall  be  glad  of  your  company.  Will 
you  walk  on  ?  It  is  cold." 

It  did  not  strike  me  as  strange  that  he  should 
know  the  name  of  my  hotel.  I  felt  that  we  were 
in  sympathy,  and  I  was  anxious  to  learn  more  of 
him  ;  yet  I  hesitated  to  put  leading  questions.  We 
walked  for  some  time  in  silence  and  at  a  slow  pace, 
his  gait  being  uncertain  and  feeble  ;  until,  as  we 
turned  a  corner,  and  came  out  into  the  great  square 
of  the  Plein,  one  side  of  which  was  ablaze  with 
lighted  windows,  he  stopped  and  sighed. 

"  You  are  tired,"  I  said. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  avoiding  the  shops,  led 
the  way  across  the  darkest  part  of  the  square,  by 
the  statue  of  William  the  Silent,  and  so  on  under 
the  trees. 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  11 

"  Where  have  we  met  before?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

He  pointed  at  the  dark  Mauritshuis,  just  defin 
able  through  the  wavering  shadows. 

"  There,  —  in  the  Rembrandt  room,"  he  answered. 

"  Yes  ;  but  before  that." 

"  Never  before  that."  Then  quickening  his  pace, 
he  added,  "  A  little  faster  ;  I  am  cold." 

It  made  me  cold  myself  to  walk  beside  him.  But 
his  voice  was  low  and  sweet  as  the  night-murmur 
of  a  brook.  I  liked  to  hear  it. 

"  Do  we  go  much  farther  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

"  No,  only  a  little,  —  a  very  little."  He  went  on 
as  if  he  were  talking  to  himself.  "  The  way  is 
short,  and  it  is  sure.  No  one  can  miss  it."  - 

We  crossed  the  top  of  the  Spui,  where  all  the 
bustle  and  movement  evidently  distressed  him. 
Another  turn  into  a  narrow,  dimly  lighted  street 
put  him  at  his  ease.  He  looked  at  me,  saying 
almost  gayly,  — 

"  You  do  not  regret  your  kindness  ?  I  have  not 
bored  you  ? " 

"  No  ;  on  the  contrary." 

"  Good  !     I  thank  you." 

The  street  brought  us  out  upon  the  brink  of  a 
sluggish  canal,  which  we  followed  for  a  few  steps 
under  a  row  of  dark  houses,  all  leaning  different 
ways,  with  the  uncanny  effect  peculiar  to  old  build 
ings  in  that  sea-disputed  land.  These  looked  as 
though  one  touch  would  send  them  tottering  to 
their  fall.  Halfway  down  the  row  he  stopped. 


12  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"This  is  the  door." 

He  went  up  to  it,  and  pulled  a  bell  that  rang  in 
the  distance,  echoing  back  to  us  as  if  through 
deserted  rooms.  After  a  moment's  delay  he 
called,  but  so  faintly  that  even  I  scarcely  heard 
him,  — 

"  Yanna !  Adriana ! " 

There  was  no  answer.  He  groped  about,  ap 
parently  for  a  key,  which  he  must  have  found.  I 
could  hear  the  grating  of  the  lock.  Then,  as  he 
held  the  door  half  open,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
hall,  where  a  dying  lamp  was  on  the  point  of  giv 
ing  up  'the  ghost  of  its  flame. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?"  he  asked. 

I  excused  myself.     The  hour  was  late. 

'l  But  you  will  come  again  ?  " 

Why  should  I  ?  I  hesitated.  All  my  old  dislike 
to  him  returned. 

A  sound  decided  me,  —  the  sound  of  low,  sweet 
music  in  the  house.  There  was  a  woman  singing. 
I  could  not  distinguish  the  words,  but  1  knew  that 
the  voice  was  a  young  girl's. 

"  Yanna !  Adriana ! "  he  called  softly  as  be 
fore  ;  and  there  was  no  more  singing. 

"  You  will  come  again  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes." 

"  To-morrow,  then ;  at  this  hour.  I  shall  ex 
pect  you." 

And  he  was  gone.  The  door  fell  back  behind 
him.  The  place  was  horribly  still.  There  was  no 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  13 

sign  of  life,  no  movement,  except  in  the  mist  slowly 
streaming  up  from  the  canal  to  fold  itself  about 
me  like  a  winding-sheet.  I  lost  no  time  in  getting 
clear  of  it. 

The  next  morning  though  I  paid  my  usual  visit 
to  the  gallery  it  was  not  to  see  the  pictures.  Even 
upon  the  great  Rembrandt  I  turned  my  back,  and 
went  from  room  to  room  with  but  one  thought,  — 
that  of  meeting  Mynheer  Grafman.  All  in  vain. 
He  was  not  there,  and  his  unwonted  absence  set 
me  thinking.  Was  he  ill  ?  That  might  well  be, 
considering  his  accident  of  the  night  before.  In 
the  broad  daylight  I  had  gone  more  than  halfway 
toward  a  resolve  to  break  my  reluctant  word  with 
him.  What  possible  good  can  come  of  our  appoint 
ment  I  had  asked  myself,  after  sleeping  upon  it 
soundly.  But  now  I  felt  in  duty  bound  to  keep  the 
promise,  if  only  to  prove  that  I  had  startled  him 
unwittingly,  to  show  a  decent  regret  for  his  false 
step  in  the  dark,  of  which,  innocently,  I  had  been 
the  cause. 

Yet  I  found  more  than  one  misgiving  left  to  con 
quer  when  the  time  came.  A  lonely  walk  after 
dark,  in  a  strange  city,  at  best  is  not  alluring. 
And  afterward  ?  What  risk  might  I  not  run  in 
crossing  that  dismal  threshold  ?  If  the  old  man 
were  a  decoy,  the  house  a  den  of  thieves  ?  I 
laughed  these  thoughts  away.  My  watch  weighed 
so  little,  and  I  carried  nothing  else  of  value  ;  my 
money,  in  a  letter  of  credit,  to  a  thief  would  be 


14  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

unavailable.  I  was  in  for  an  adventure,  mildly  in 
teresting,  perhaps ;  but  what  were  travel  without 
adventures  ?  Nevertheless,  I  gave  the  hotel-cham 
ber  that  mute  farewell  one  bids  his  household  gods 
on  the  eve  of  a  long  journey.  With  this  too  went 
certain  precautions.  I  left  upon  the  dressing-table 
a  line  to  indicate  my  destination,  so  far  as  I  knew 
it ;  I  closed  the  door  of  my  room  without  turning 
the  key  ;  and  finding  below  the  monumental  portier, 
resplendent  in  steel  buttons  and  silver  lace,  1  passed 
the  time  of  night  with  him,  taking  pains  to  state 
the  precise  hour  of  my  return.  He  twirled  the 
waxed  ends  of  his  absurdly  small  moustache,  then 
smiled  and  nodded  confidentially.  His  keen  glance 
was  my  best  assurance.  The  soul  of  the  Marshal 
Turenne  would  not  fail  to  be  disquieted,  in  case  my 
absence  were  prolonged. 

I  followed  the  narrow  street  to  the  pale  mists  of 
the  canal.  This  was  the  place,  and  there  the  house 
I  wanted,  —  the  fifth  from  the  corner,  I  remem 
bered  that.  I  pulled  the  bell,  which  jangled  again 
remotely  with  the  sound  I  knew,  and  immediately 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  tall,  white-haired  man 
servant  in  dark  livery. 

"Mynheer  Grafinan?" 

He  bowed  and  moved  aside  to  let  me  pass,  then 
led  the  way  into  the  long  hall,  painted  white  and 
panelled,  with  here  and  there  a  portrait  frowning 
down.  At  the  farther  end  I  saw  a  staircase  in  its 
carved  spiral  of  balustrade.  But  he  stopped  half- 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  15 

way,  and,  lifting  a  piece  of  faded  tapestry,  waited 
silently  for  me  to  go  in.  I  did  so,  and  felt  the 
curtain  fall  heavily  into  its  place. 

I  seemed  to  step  at  once  into  the  golden  age  of 
Holland.  The  high  walls  of  the  huge  drawing- 
room  were  hung  with  splendid  pictures  that  out 
shone  the  gilding  of  their  heavy  frames.  The 
polished  furniture  was  carved  into  strange  shapes 
and  richly  ornamented.  There  were  odd,  rococo 
cabinets,  revealing  through  their  glass  doors  many 
precious  objects,  —  gold  and  silver  drinking-cups, 
ancient  prizes  of  the  hunting-feast,  South  Sea  curios 
of  coral,  ivory,  and  jade.  The  soft  Eastern  carpets 
and  softer  hangings  had  those  subdued  tints  that 
only  time's  slowly  moving  shuttle  weaves ;  the 
crystal  drops  of  the  sconces  glowed  with  candle 
light  ;  and  upon  the  wide  hearth,  in  spite  of  the 
season,  a  fire  had  been  kindled.  In  the  chimney- 
corner  stood  a  harp,  and  close  beside  it,  on  a  heap 
of  crumpled  music,  a  jar  of  yellow  roses.  Their 
perfume,  strengthened  by  the  warmth  of  the  fire, 
filled  the  room.  Only  this  handful  of  flowers  held 
the  odor  of  the  present  in  them  ;  all  else  belonged 
to  an  interior  that  Terburgh  might  have  painted 
for  background  to  a  knight  and  lady  smiling  over 
a  love-letter.  And  my  timid  fancy  had  pictured  it 
a  den  of  thieves  ! 

Mynheer  Grafman  left  his  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
came  forward  to  meet  me.  He  did  not  offer  his 
hand,  but  greeted  me  with  grave  cordiality. 


16  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  You  are  welcome,"  lie  said.  "  I  feared  you 
might  forget." 

His  voice  had  the  same  clear  note,  which  again 
disarmed  ine. 

"  I  could  not  forget,"  I  answered,  "  that  through 
me  you  were  caused  annoyance,  possibly  serious. 
You  are  none  the  worse  for  your  accident  ?  " 

"  No  ;  as  you  see." 

He  went  back  to  his  place,  inviting  me  with  a 
gesture  to  draw  closer  and  be  seated. 

As  I  turned  for  a  chair,  the  curtain  was  brushed 
aside,  and  I  saw  in  the  doorway  the  slender  figure 
of  a  young  girl  so  lovely  that  I  stood  still  and 
stared  at  her  in  speechless  wonder,  almost  fear 
ing  to  breathe,  lest  I  should  wake  from  a  dream 
to  long  for  her  forever.  But  she  dropped  the  cur 
tain,  and  came  into  the  room. 

She  wore  pale  yellow,  the  color  of  the  roses,  with 
no  ornament  except  a  white  camellia.  It  could  not 
match  the  whiteness  of  her  throat ;  and  her  arms, 
hare  to  the  elbow,  might  have  been  the  missing 
ones  of  Melos,  they  were  so  delicately  rounded. 
Her  hair  was  black,  and  its  heavy  braid  fell  over 
one  shoulder  to  her  waist.  Her  eyes  were  black 
too ;  they  had  no  laughter  in  them  ;  they  deepened 
the  sadness  of  the  face,  yet  it  was  of  beauty  inde 
scribable,  beyond  all  other  beauty  of  the  earth.  I 
can  only  liken  it  to  the  face  of  night,  just  flushed 
with  the  rosy  tint  of  morning,  —  mournful,  but  sub 
missive  ;  reluctant  to  go,  yet  preparing  to  be  gone. 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  17 

There  was  an  awkward  moment  of  silence  before 
my  host  looked  up  and  presented  me. 

"  It  is  my  daughter  Adriana,"  he  then  said 
tenderly. 

She  bent  her  head  but  did  not  offer  her  hand. 

"  It  is  not  the  custom,"  I  thought,  wondering  in 
what  language  to  address  her. 

Then  she  spoke,  in  English. 

"  You  are  welcome."  That  was  all.  But  her 
father's  voice  seemed  harsh  after  those  words. 

I  stammered  incoherent  thanks  for  her  kindness 
to  a  stranger. 

"  I  knew  we  were  to  meet,"  she  answered.  "  Let 
us  forget  that  we  are  strangers." 

She  turned  away,  while  I  sat  down,  as  her  father 
begged  me  to  do.  I  listened  to  his  talk,  thinking 
only  of  her,  and  following  her  with  my  eyes.  She 
brought  a  low  table,  and  set  it  down  between  us  ; 
then  placed  upon  it  two  glasses  with  curiously 
twisted  stems,  and  after  filling  these  from  a  sil 
ver-mounted  flagon,  she  handed  one  to  me. 

"  That  you  may  forget,"  she  said  gently. 

My  hand  shook  a  little  as  I  took  the  glass.  The 
time,  the  place,  and  her  strange  presence,  all  had 
something  fearful  in  them.  The  wine  was  black, 
but  through  it  one  crimson  bubble,  glowing  like 
fire,  rose  to  the  brim  and  broke. 

"  Will  you  not  drink  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  paus 
ing  with  his  own  glass  at  his  lips. 

"  Friends,  always  !  "  I  murmured,  drinking  as  I 
-2 


18  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

spoke,  and  looking  from  him  to  her,  while  she 
whispered  back  my  words. 

So,  in  honor  of  the  toast,  we  drained  the 
glasses. 

"  Fill  again  !  "  said  Mynheer  Graf  man,  as  we  put 
them  down.  The  liquor  had  the  richness  of  an 
Italian  vino  spumante,  or  some  old  Burgundy  of 
noted  vintage  ;  but  it  was  very  cold,  and  its  fine, 
aromatic  flavor  was  quite  unknown  to  me. 

"  What  wine  is  this  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  grapes  were  grown  in  Java,"  he  replied ; 
"  and  this  cask  of  mine  has,  in  its  time,  made  many 
voyages.  The  wine  is  rare  and  old,  but  there  is 
no  harm  in  it." 

"  None  whatever,"  said  I,  sipping  it  again. 
"  These  were  grapes,  indeed."  The  draught  had 
an  effect  upon  me  more  than  pleasant,  wonderfully 
soothing.  I  settled  myself  in  -my  chair,  and  felt 
at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Care  and  sorrow 
seemed  to  float  away  in  an  alembic  fume.  There 
was  in  my  past  one  bitter  hour,  whose  recollection 
had  never  failed  to  move  me.  I  thought  of  it  now 
indifferently,  as  though  it  were  another  man's ;  I 
could  not  even  sigh  at  it.  And  of  the  future  I 
thought  nothing.  I  was  there  ;  I  saw  her  ;  I  was 
content  with  the  present  moment,  so  content  as 
to  believe  that  it  would  last. 

Mynheer  Grafman  asked  me  if  I  liked  music. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  eagerly  ;  "  to  the  music  of 
last  night  I  could  listen  always." 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  19 

"  Yanna  !  "  he  said,  looking  up  at  her  and  dwell 
ing  on  the  affectionate  diminutive  ;  "  Yanna  !  " 

She  had  been  standing  behind  his  chair,  but 
now  she  crossed  the  room,  and  seating  herself  at 
the  harp,  stretched  one  white  arm  across  it  to  try 
the  strings.  Of  all  instruments,  the  harp  is  per 
haps  the  one  best  suited  to  graceful  girlhood ; 
and  I  found  it  hard  not  to  startle  her  into  a  con 
sciousness  of  her  own  beauty  with  a  false  note  of 
admiration. 

The  song  was  in  her  native  language,  and  I  un 
derstood  no  phrase  of  it ;  yet  my  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  I  could  not  praise  her  voice ;  and  though 
its  sweetness  lives  in  my  mind's  ear  like  the 
sea's  voice  in  a  shell,  I  cannot  put  it  into  words, 
—  it  won  my  heart.  She  stopped  singing,  and 
played  on,  till  the  music,  note  by  note,  had  died 
away. 

"  The  song  ?  "  I  asked.  «  What  is  it  ?  What 
does  it  mean  ? " 

"  It  is  a  song  about  life,"  she  answered. 

"  Life  ! "  I  repeated.  "  There  was  a  sob  in  every 
word.  Can  life,  then,  be  so  sad  a  thing  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  in  all  the  universe  so  sad  as 
human  life,"  she  said  with  perfect  calmness,  as 
though  this  were  to  her  a  truth  long  since  estab 
lished  past  all  disputing. 

"  No  matter  !  "  I  cried.  "  Though  it  be  a  wail,  I 
must  know  your  song  by  heart.  Sing  it  to  me 
again,  —  once  more,  I  beg  of  you  !  " 


20  DA  Y  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

She  hesitated,  but  her  father  made  a  warning 
gesture.  She  rose,  left  the  harp,  and  went  directly 
to  the  door,  as  if  in  obedience  to  the  signal. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said,  with  her  hand  already  at 
the  curtain.  "No  more,  until  we  meet  again." 

"  But  that  may  never  be,"  I  urged. 

"  Yes,  sooner  or  later,  it  will  surely  be.  All 
rests  with  you."  And  she  was  gone. 

I  longed  to  speak  of  her,  but  this  was  not  per 
mitted.  My  host  seemed  bent  upon  changing  the 
current  of  my  thoughts.  He  led  me  about  the 
room,  opening  the  cabinets  to  give  me  a  closer  look 
at  their  contents,  talking  of  them  rapidly  and  of 
the  pictures. 

"  There  is  a  Hobbema,  and  here  a  Ruisdael.  This 
horn  is  of  wrought  silver,  —  good  work,  it  might 
pass  for  a  Cellini.  The  other  is  of  later  date,  in 
ferior,  as  you  see.  That  portrait  is  a  Rembrandt." 
I  started  involuntarily,  remembering  our  first  meet 
ing.  He  stopped  for  a  moment,  then  went  up  to 
the  picture. 

"It  is  Nicolaas  Tulp,"  he  continued,  "the  painter's 
friend  and  patron.  You  remember  ?  " 

"  Perfectly.  It  is  he  who  gives  the  '  Lesson  in 
Anatomy.'  ': 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  turning  upon  me  with  an  atten 
tive  look  which  was  somewhat  disconcerting. 

"Why  does  he  do  that?"  I  thought;  "I  will 
keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  him  in  the  mirror."  Then 
I  noticed  for  the  first  time,  with  wondering  eyes, 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  21 

that,  in  spite  of  the  rich  appointments,  there  was 
no  mirror  of  any  kind  in  the  room. 

Meanwhile  the  other  went  on,  still  talking  of  the 
once  famous  surgeon. 

"  The  same  man,  of  course,"  said  he  ;  "  without 
his  hat,  this  time.  But  you  recognize  him,  do  you 
not?  The  likeness  is  unmistakable." 

"  To  be  sure,"  I  returned  lightly.  "Mynheer 
Tulp  and  I  are  old  friends.  I  greet  him  cordially. 
This  is  he,  beyond  all  question." 

We  looked  at  the  portrait  for  a  time  in  silence. 
Then  Mynheer  Graf  man  spoke  again. 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  Rembrandt,"  said  he. 

"  Yes  ;  and  especially  of  his  masterpiece,  —  the 
picture  in  the  Mauritshuis,  of  which  we  were  just 
now  speaking." 

"  Pardon  me ;  his  master-work  is  not  there." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  I  expressed  but  my  own  opinion. 
The  world  will  tell  you  of  the  '  Night-Watch,'  so 
called,  in  Amsterdam  —  " 

"  Pardon  me ;  nor  is  it  there  in  Amsterdam." 

"  And  where  else  should  one  look  for  it  ? "  I 
demanded. 

"  One,  indeed  !  "  was  his  strange  answer.  "  The 
world  has  looked  long  in  vain  for  what  one  man 
may  see." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Hush !  not  so  loud.  Wait,  and  I  will  show 
you." 

He  went  over  to  the  high  chimney-piece  and  laid 


22  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

his  hand  upon  one  of  its  smaller  panels ;  with  some 
slight  pressure  the  bit  of  wood  turned  upon  a  pivot, 
disclosing  a  shallow  hiding-place  from  which  he 
took  a  rusty  key  and  an  old  brass  lamp.  He  pushed 
the  panel  into  place  again,  and  lighting  the  lamp, 
looked  about  uneasily ;  then  beckoned  me  to 
follow. 

At  the  back  of  the  room  was  a  long  window, 
which  he  opened  stealthily.  "  Make  no  noise  !  " 
he  whispered,  as  we  stepped  out  upon  the  loose 
pavement  of  a  terrace  encumbered  with  dusty 
vines.  We  passed  down  the  broken  steps  and 
on  through  a  neglected  garden.  In  its  grass- 
grown  paths  the  glow-worms  were  shining  faintly ; 
and,  as  we  walked,  the  toads  leaped  right  and 
left  before  us  into  beds  of  straggling  flowers 
choked  with  weeds.  Along  one  side  a  line  of 
out-buildings,  dark  and  dingy,  stretched  away 
from  the  house.  Following  this  almost  to  the 
end,  he  stopped  at  a  low  door  and  tried  his  key. 
After  some  effort,  with  more  noise  than  he  cared 
to  make,  it  turned  in  the  lock,  and  we  went  in. 

I  stood  in  a  stone  chamber,  built  like  a  cellar 
or  a  crypt,  with  a  vaulted  ceiling.  There  were 
wooden  shelves  crowded  with  glass  vessels,  plump 
and  unwieldy,  some  with  wicker  covers.  Rows 
of  casks  loomed  up  in  the  darkness  ;  some  of 
these  were  empty,  some  still  contained  liquor,  or 
perhaps,  were  only  reeking  with  its  fumes.  The 
dampness  was  visible  ;  my  breath  turned  to  vapor, 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  23 

and  touching  the  wall,  I  felt  there  a  patch  of 
mould. 

"  It  was  once  a  wine-shop,"  whispered  Mynheer 
Grafman,  holding  the  lamp  above  his  head  with 
one  hand  and  feeling  his  way  forward  with  the 
other. 

I  waited  near  the  door,  watching  him.  As  he 
went  on,  I  began  to  see  that  the  opposite  wall- 
space  was  entirely  filled  by  a  large  picture  with 
figures  indistinct,  at  first,  and  spectral  in  the 
darkness.  But  my  guide  stopped  under  a  hanging 
shelf  to  light  a  pair  of  many-branched  candelabra 
that  stood  upon  it ;  and  as  the  flames  flashed 
up  I  gave,  incautiously,  loud  expression  to  my 
wonder  and  delight.  He  silenced  me  with  a  stern 
gesture ;  and  hurrying  back,  he  listened  for  a 
moment  to  the  dismal  call  of  the  insects  in  the 
garden.  Then  he  shut  the  door  and  locked  it. 

"  Now  we  may  speak  freely,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
not  too  loud." 

I  did  not  care  to  speak.  My  eyes  spoke  for 
me.  What  I  saw  was  a  pendant,  undoubtedly, 
to  the  great  Rembrandt  of  the  Hague  Museum  ; 
though  it  looked  larger  than  that  in  this  cramped 
space.  The  composition  recalled  the  "  Lesson  in 
Anatomy,"  but  differed  from  it  widely  in  all  de 
tails.  The  portraits  were  of  other  men  in  other 
attitudes.  The  operating  surgeon,  uncovered,  was 
older  than  Mynheer  Tulp,  with  a  face  far  stronger 
than  his  and  finer.  His  subject,  so  foreshortened 


24  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

that  the  hands  appeared  almost  to  touch  the  feet, 
lay  turned  directly  toward  me  ;  and  this  partially 
draped  figure,  so  like  death  that  it  must  once 
have  lived,  was  the  body  of  a  woman.  But  here 
the  noble  quality  of  the  other  picture  reasserted 
itself.  This  hideousness,  thrust  into  the  fore 
ground,  failed  to  catch  the  eye.  All  my  admira 
tion  went  up  to  the  group  around  it.  "  Life, 
life  !  "  was  my  one  thought ;  "  these  men  were 
made  to  be  immortal." 

Out  of  my  startled  silence  I  was  brought  back 
to  myself  by  an  unpleasant  consciousness  that 
Mynheer  Grafman  had  again  been  closely  watch 
ing  me.  I  turned  quickly,  to  detect  and  to  confuse 
him  ;  but  he  looked  away  indifferently. 

"  You  were  perfectly  right,"  I  said ;  "  this  is 
Rembrandt's  masterpiece." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  The  surgeon  is  the  illus 
trious  Johannes  Deyman,  inspector  of  the  Col 
legium  Medicum.  For  many  years  the  picture 
hung  in  the  old  Weighing-House  at  Amsterdam 
opposite  its  companion,  the  '  Lesson  in  Anatomy.' 
Then  —  He  stopped  and  sighed. 

"Then?"  I  repeated. 

"  The  corporation  needed  money.  They  sold 
their  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  Offered 
at  public  sale,  this  picture  went  for  a  handful 
of  silver  to  an  Englishman.  And  no  one  inter 
fered  ;  all  the  great  ones  of  the  city  looked  on 
and  saw  it  done." 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  25 

His  speech  had  a  suppressed  fury  which  I 
understood  and  could  not  help  admiring. 

"  When  was  this  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Within  the  memory  of  living-  men.  In  what 
other  age  could  it  have  come  to  pass  ?  Years  be 
fore  the  king  had  saved  the  '  Lesson  in  Anatomy,' 
buying  it,  in  private  contract,  for  more  than  thirty 
times  the  paltry  sum  this  brought.  But  times 
had  changed  ;  pride  and  self-respect  were  gone. 
The  nation  grovelled  in  the  dust,  and  clutched 
its  money-bags,  while  the  genius  of  art  wept  for 
shame,  with  folded  wings." 

"  Why  then  is  this  picture  here  ?  It  did  not  go 
to  England.  By  whom  was  it  saved  ?  How  ? " 

"  The  ship  was  lost,  with  all  on  board,"  he 
said  mournfully.  "  Only  the  picture  came  to  me  ; 
saved  as  you  see  it,  by  a  miracle." 

"  A  miracle ! "  I  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
contempt  that  I  could  not  restrain.  "  We  have 
no  miracles.  Say  by  accident  or  by  design." 

"  Or  by  theft,"  he  added  calmly.  "  That  was 
in  your  tone." 

Our  glances  met,  and  I  withdrew  mine,  not 
without  embarrassment.  The  suspicion  had,  in 
deed,  occurred  to  me. 

"  Have  no  fear,"  he  continued,  with  the  same 
sadness.  "  There  was  no  double-dealing.  Wrested 
from  the  sea,  like  this  poor  land  of  Holland,  the 
inheritance  fell  to  me  honestly.  Mine  by  right,  it  is 
here  in  my  possession,  and  here  it  shall  remain." 


26  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Surely,"  I  objected,  "  you  are  not  serious. 
You  cannot  mean  to  hide  this  treasure  from  the 
world  ? " 

"  The  world  !  "  he  repeated  bitterly.  "  What 
is  it  to  me  ?  It  has  left  this  picture  to  become 
a  line  in  Burger's  history.  Who  knows ;  who 
cares  ;  who  mourns  its  loss  ?  The  world  tram 
ples  upon  graves." 

"  That  is  unjust ;   if  not  to  all,  to  one." 

"  I  have  no  quarrel  with  you,"  he  returned. 
"  But  the  money-changers  made  their  price,  and 
it  was  paid  to  them.  Their  treasure  is  lost  be 
yond  recovery.  I  have  sworn  it.  Then  too  there 
is  another  reason." 

"  And  what  is  that  ? "  I  demanded. 

"  Look  !  Can  you  find  nothing  there  that  an 
swers  you  ? " 

I  turned  back  to  those  glowing  faces,  incom 
parable  in  their  vivid  color,  in  their  strength  and 
beauty.  The  painter  had  breathed  into  them  the 
breath  of  life  ;  they  almost  took  away  my  own. 
Yet  his  hidden  meaning  still  eluded  me. 

"  No,"  I  sighed  ;  "  it  is  useless,  I  cannot  find 
the  reason." 

He  had  already  left  me  ;  and  as  I  spoke,  he 
began  to  put  out  the  lights,  one  after  another, 
slowly. 

"  You  are  so  young,"  he  said.  "  Your  eyes 
have  all  youth's  weakness  in  them.  Patience  ! 
they  will  grow  dimmer ;  you  will  see." 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  27 

The  light  was  nearly  gone,  when,  groping  with 
my  eyes  as  with  the  brain  one  struggles  for  the 
thought  it  misses,  I  felt  that  I  was  about  to  catch 
a  glimmering  of  his  secret. 

"  Wait !  "  1  cried.     "  One  moment  more  !  " 

But  the  last  light  went  out,  leaving  only  the  lamp 
to  guide  us.  It  was  darkness  visible,  through  which, 
as  before,  there  rose  a  group  of  spectral  figures. 

"  Your  time  will  come,"  whispered  Mynheer 
Grafman  as  he  unlocked  the  door.  "  You  said 
just  now,  '  We  have  no  miracles  ; '  count  it  one, 
hereafter,  to  have  seen  the  lost  Rembrandt." 

We  stole  back  into  the  house  with  all  our 
former  precaution.  Everything  was  as  we  left 
it.  My  host  moved  back  the  panel,  and  put  away 
his  lamp  and  key.  It  was  late  ;  I  had  no  excuse 
for  delaying  longer,  and  bade  him  good-night. 
For  answer  he  refilled  our  empty  glasses.  I  drank 
the  perfumed  wine,  and  once  more  a  grave  content 
benumbed  my  senses.  But  I  put  down  the  glass 
and  turned  to  go. 

"  I  can  only  thank  you,"  I  said,  "  and  assure 
you  that  I  shall  always  remember  these  things." 

"  ffaec  olim  meminisse, "  he  murmured.  Then, 
without  a  smile,  without  offering  his  hand,  he 
led  the  way  to  the  street-door  and  opened  it. 

"  Good-night !  "  he  said,  "  and  good  repose." 

Thus,  with  no  hint  that  we  might  ever  meet 
again,  the  door  closed  upon  him.  It  was  a  final 
parting. 


28  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

I  had  not  overstayed  my  prescribed  limit  of 
time.  The  quizzical  look  of  the  portier  bore  wit 
ness  to  that.  But  the  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  hotel  jarred  upon  me  horribly.  1  could 
not  sink  at  once  to  their  lower  level.  I  was  like 
one  returning  home  after  long  absence  to  find 
forgotten  flaws  in  everything. 

So  I  went  to  my  room,  wide  awake,  yet  half 
inclined  to  fancy  I  was  dreaming.  Among  the 
few  books  which  had  been  my  only  travelling- 
companions  lay  a  worn  copy  of  Burger's  "  Dutch 
Museums."  It  did  not  take  me  long  to  find  his 
record  of  the  lost  picture,  —  a  few  lines  only, 
easily  overlooked,  as  I  must  often  have  overlooked 
them.  "  The  color  resembles  closely  that  of 
Titian."  Sir  Joshua  had  spoken  of  it  once  in 
those  very  words.  Then  followed  a  statement  of 
the  price  paid  by  the  Englishman,  together  with 
the  date  of  his  purchase,  —  February  7,  1842. 
"  It  is  astonishing,"  said  the  author  in  con 
clusion,  "  that  here  all  knowledge  of  the  picture 
ends." 

I  read  and  reread  the  paragraph  impatiently.  It 
said  so  little  ;  but  the  writer  had  never  seen  that 
of  which  he  wrote.  What  more  could  he  say  ? 
There  was  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the  dressing-table. 
I  laughed,  remembering  how  I  had  left  my  last  in 
structions  upon  it.  I  took  it  up  now  to  mark  the 
place  in  the  book  ;  then  saw  with  surprise  that  this 
paper  was  not  mine,  but  that  it  bore  my  name  ia 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  29 

a  strange  hand.  I  opened  it  and  pulled  the  bell 
violently. 

"  Who  brought  this  ? "  I  asked. 

The  maid  had  small  English,  but  was  able  to 
state  that  she  did  not  know.  Whereupon  I  sum 
moned  other  servants,  until  at  last  I  learned  that 
earlier  in  tli£  evening  an  old  man  had  been  seen  to 
knock  at  my  door.  He  wore  livery,  and  otherwise 
the  description  tallied  perfectly  with  my  recollec 
tion  of  the  silent  familiar  who  had  admitted  me  to 
Mynheer  Grafman's  house.  The  messenger  was 
thus  accounted  for  though  not  the  message. 

The  paper  contained  but  a  line,  in  faded  ink, 
lightly  written, — 

Come  to-morrow,  three  hours  after  mid-day.  I 
shall  be  alone.  ADRIANA. 

Nearly  all  that  night  I  heard  the  chimes  quarter 
ing  out  the  hours.  Toward  daybreak  I  slept  to 
dream  of  her ;  and  waking,  feared  to  look,  lest  I 
had  only  dreamed  that  she  had  written.  But  the 
letter  was  still  there.  At  the  sight  of  it  my  heart 
leaped,  and  then  I  knew  I  loved  her.  What  could 
those  words  mean,  but  that  she  also  knew  it  and 
loved  me. 

In  the  clear  light  of  day  I  reviewed  the  adven 
ture  with  all  the  calmness  possible  to  a  man  who 
has  just  unlocked  his  heart's  door  and  found  the  im 
mortal  little  bailiff  in  possession.  All  my  thoughts 
led  to  the  same  conclusion  ;  and  I  chafed,  impatient 


30  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

of  the  hours.  The  time  came  at  last ;  and  it  found 
me  at  the  house,  which  now,  more  than  ever,  looked 
like  one  deserted.  The  blinds  were  closed,  and 
there  was  thick  dust  upon  them.  I  rang,  and  got 
no  answer.  But  the  door  stood  ajar;  the  afternoon 
breeze  stirred  it  a  little,  as  if  bidding  me  to  go 
in.  "  She  is  alone,"  I  thought,  making  my  way  on 
through  the  unlighted  hall,  and  rinding  it  very  cool 
and  dark  to  eyes  that  carried  all  the  sunshine  with 
them.  This  was  the  curtained  door.  As  I  touched 
it,  low  notes  of  the  harp  within  confirmed  me.  I 
waited  in  the  dark  one  tremulous  moment  more ; 
then  all  the  light  came  back,  and  I  saw  her  there 
alone. 

She  sat  at  the  harp,  playing  softly  to  herself  the 
air  she  had  played  to  me.  She  wore  the  same 
colors,  even  to  the  white  flower  at  her  breast ;  the 
surroundings  too  were  all  the  same.  The  little 
table,  with  the  wine,  stood  exactly  where  I  left  it ; 
the  present  day  was  carefully  shut  out ;  the  candles 
were  still  burning.  There  was  the  pile  of  music, 
there  the  jar  of  roses ;  but  a  few  petals  had  fallen 
upon  the  hearth,  and  the  fire  had  died  down  into 
a  heap  of  ashes.  While  I  looked  at  her  I  saw 
these  things ;  for  she  did  not  rise,  and  though  her 
look  met  mine,  she  gave  me  at  first  no  sign  of 
recognition. 

I  drew  nearer,  and  she  welcomed  me  with  her  eyes. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  come,"  she  said.  "  It 
was  much  to  ask ;  yet  I  have  more  to  ask  of  you." 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  31 

"  I  will  do  all  you  ask,"  I  answered,  "  upon  one 
condition."  I  pointed  at  the  harp.  "  The  song  I 
heard  last  night, —  that  is  all." 

"Listen,"  she  said,  and  touched  the  strings. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  it  is  the  same." 

"  The  same  air,  but  with  other  words.  These 
are  in  your  language." 

"And  about  life?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  always  about  life.  Listen !  It  is  called 
'In  Circe's  Garden.'" 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice,  —  tears  too  in 
my  eyes.  I  longed  to  hear  her ;  yet,  at  that  mo 
ment,  would  have  implored  her  not  to  sing.  The 
prelude  went  on  softly.  There  was  a  cushion  on 
the  floor  at  her  side ;  I  flung  myself  down  upon  it, 
half  kneeling,  half  reclining  at  her  feet.  But  she 
had  forgotten  me  ;  absorbed  in  the  music,  with  a 
sweetness  that  even  Circe,  the  enchantress,  might 
have  envied,  she  sang  these  words :  — 

0  Love,  stay  by  and  sing  ; 
Thy  reddest  roses  bring, 

Thy  richest  wine  ! 

1  would  but  fill  and  quaff, 

I  would  but  live  and  laugh 
And  make  thee  mine  ! 

For  Fame  's  a  field  hard-fought, 
And  gained,  a  thing  of  naught 

To  have  and  hold  ! 
Who  would  the  laurel  wear 
Immortal  youth  should  bear, 

And  I  am  old  ! 


32  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

So,  Love,  stay  by  and  sing, 
Thy  reddest  roses  bring, 

Thy  richest  wine  ! 
I  leave  the  work  un  wrought, 
I  leave  the  field  unfought 
For  thee  and  thine  ! 

The  song  ended.  I  forgot  its  underlying  sorrow. 
I  only  knew  that  with  its  last  notes  she  turned  ten 
derly  to  me.  I  caught  her  in  niy  arms  and  kissed 
her.  She  broke  away  with  a  low  cry ;  and  I  drew 
back,  trembling  even  in  the  moment  of  my  triumph, 
for  my  chilled  lips  had  touched  a  cheek  as  cold 
as  marble.  A  string  in  the  harp  snapped,  and  one 
end  came  rattling  down.  She  looked  at  it  and 
laughed  bitterly.  This  sound  of  mirth,  the  first 
known  to  me  in  that  strange  household,  brought  an 
angry  flush  into  my  face.  Once  more  I  was  on  fire. 

"  Adriana  !  "  I  cried,  "  do  not  mock  me  !  Do  not 
laugh  !  I  love  you." 

She  sighed,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know." 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  bring  me  here  ?  To  laugh 
at  me  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  Have  you  forgotten  your 
promise  ?  " 

"What  promise?" 

"  Just  now,  —  to  do  all  that  I  should  ask  ?" 

"  I  am  ready  to  keep  it !  Speak  !  What  shall 
I  do?" 

She  moved  nearer,  holding  me  with  a  mute  ap 
peal  which  was  not  to  be  resisted.  Had  she  bade 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  33 

me  commit  some  dreadful  crime,  I  could  not  have 
denied  her. 

"  So  slight  a  thing,"  she  said.  "  Show  me  what 
you  saw  last  night." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  The  treasure  that  my  father  hides  from  all  the 
world, —  even  from  me." 

"  The  lost  picture,  —  Rembrandt's  masterpiece  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  picture,  then.  How  often  I  have  tried 
to  see  it !  But  the  door  is  always  locked,  and  my 
father  keeps  the  key,  —  where,  I  do  not  know. 
But  you  —  " 

"  Yes,"  I  whispered,  turning  anxiously  to  assure 
myself  that  we  were  not  overheard.  "  Yes,  I 
know." 

"  Do  not  fear ! "  she  answered.  "  We  are  alone. 
You  will  let  me  see  it  ? " 

I  took  a  step  toward  the  carved  chimney-piece, 
to  find  the  secret  panel,  then  hesitated  a  moment 
longer. 

"And  afterward?"  said  I. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me. 

"  Afterward,"  she  murmured,  "  we  shall  go  hand 
in  hand.  You  will  be  mine,  henceforth ;  I  shall 
be  yours.  Though  you  long  to  escape,  there  can 
be  no  escaping." 

"  I  shall  never  long  for  that,"  I  said,  and  took 
her  hand.  The  touch  of  her  fingers  sent  an  icy 
thrill  through  all  my  veins.  I  seemed  to  grow 
sadder  and  calmer,  —  years  older,  in  a  moment. 

3 


34  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

There  was  a  new  heaviness  about  my  heart ;  it  still 
remained  there  after  our  hands  unclasped,  —  in 
deed,  it  has  never  left  me.  Yet  in  spite  of  it  I 
loved  her  and  shall  love  her  all  my  days. 

I  found  the  panel  and  pushed  it  open.  I  lighted 
the  lamp,  while  she  stood  by  with  questioning  eyes 
and  parted  lips.  Then  I  took  down  the  key. 

"Come!"  I  said. 

I  was  no  longer  in  her  thoughts ;  they  were  all 
for  the  end  and  not  the  means. 

"  Show  it  to  me  !"  she  whispered  eagerly.  "  Show 
it  to  me  !  " 

We  went  out  into  the  blinding  daylight,  through 
the  dusty  garden  to  the  door  of  the  wine-shop.  I 
opened  it,  without  a  word,  and  went  on  through 
the  clinging  darkness,  assured  that  she  would  fol 
low.  I  found  the  candelabra,  and  began  to  light 
them,  still  silent,  leaving  the  master  to  make  his 
own  impression  upon  her.  But  half  the  tapers 
\vcre  lighted,  when  a  low  moan  broke  the  silence, 
and  turning,  I  saw  her  face  pale,  distorted,  with 
all  its  beauty  faded,  in  an  agony  of  terror.  She 
spoke  no  word,  but  pointed  toward  the  picture,  half 
revealed,  and  then,  with  a  frightful  cry,  fled  from 
the  place. 

Oh  horror !  The  livid  figure  there  upon  the  can 
vas  was  her  own^  The  lovely  eyes  were  closed, 
the  features  were  sharpened,  drawn,  distorted,  as  I 
had  just  now  seen  them.  But  the  face  was  hers,  — 
dead,  dead ;  only  waiting  for  the  grave.  She  had 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  35 

recognized  it ;  she  had  learned  the  secret,  and  now 
I  saw  it  too. 

I  dropped  the  lamp  and  rushed  back  into  the 
sunshine.  There  was  no  sign  of  her  ;  but  the  long 
window,  which  we  had  carefully  closed  behind  us, 
stood  open,  as  she  must  have  left  it  in  her  flight. 
I  hurried  after  her,  up  the  broken  steps,  over  the 
crumbling  terrace,  into  the  room.  She  was  not 
there ;  but  on  the  floor  I  found  the  white  camellia, 
lying  where  it  had  fallen  from  her  breast.  I  caught 
it  up ;  its  petals  were  already  stained  and  withered. 
I  saw  an  ugly  worm  wriggling  in  their  folds  ;  and 
I  dropped  the  poor,  decaying  flower  with  a  shiver 
of  disgust. 

I  looked  around  me.  A  shadow  had  fallen  upon 
the  room.  The  glare  of  day  had  blighted  it,  even 
as  the  white  camellia  had  been  blighted.  The  can 
dles  writhed  in  their  sockets,  sputtering  and  flaring 
and  going  out,  one  by  one.  The  drops  of  the  rusted 
sconces  hung  lustreless ;  the  pictures  showed  cen 
turies  of  blackness  on  them ;  their  frames  were 
tarnished;  the  splendid  hangings  too  were  musty 
and  worm-eaten.  The  very  floor  felt  rotten  under 
my  feet.  Something  rustled  along  the  wainscot ;  it 
was  only  a  hungry  rat  slinking  back  to  his  hole. 

"Adriana!"  I  called.  "  Adriana !  "  and  the 
walls  mocked  me  with  her  nickname,  —  "  Yanna ! 
Yanna ! " 

I  rushed  out  into  the  hall,  dislodging,  as  I  went, 
the  heavy  curtain,  which  fell  in  shreds  about  my 


36  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

heels.  I  climbed  the  creaking  stairs,  still  calling 
her  by  name,  entreating  her  to  answer.  Above 
were  locked  doors  that  I  could  not  open.  One  at 
last  gave  way,  crashing  down  into  a  chamber  empty 
but  for  an  old  bedstead  with  a  tattered  canopy. 
The  broken  window-panes  were  choked  Avith  cob 
webs.  Dust  rose  in  clouds.  Then,  all  at  once,  the 
loneliness  appalled  me.  I  dashed  down  the  stair 
case  to  the  street-door,  on  the  threshold  shouting 
back  once  more  into  the  silence  ;  and  once  more 
my  voice  returned  to  me  that  dismal  echo,  —  u  Yan- 
na  !  Yanna ! " 

I  took  to  the  streets  like  a  thief  in  desperation, 
spurred  on  by  a  new  fear,  bent  upon  a  new  pur 
pose.  I  had  no  time  to  lose,  for  my  objective 
point  was  the  Mauritshuis,  which  in  a  few  minutes 
would  be  closed  for  the  day.  I  found  the  last  vis 
itors  departing  ;  the  doorkeeper  smiled  as  he  pulled 
out  his  watch,  but  I  passed  him  by  breathlessly, 
and  went  up,  at  breakneck  speed,  two  stairs  at  a 
time,  to  the  Rembrandt  room.  I  stood  before  the 
"  Lesson  in  Anatomy  ; "  and  shutting  out  the  sur 
geons  with  my  hand,  looked  only  at  their  recum 
bent  subject.  There  could  be  no  longer  any  doubt. 
The  face  was  set  and  rigid,  —  lengthened,  sunken, 
blank,  and  expressionless,  like  all  dead  faces.  But 
I  knew  it  now  for  Mynheer  Grafman's. 

Excited  and  alarmed,  I  dared  not  look  behind 
me,  lest  I  should  find  him  at  my  shoulder,  where  I 
had  seen  him  first.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  groped 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  37 

my  way  to  the  door  ;  then  felt  for  the  stair-rail,  as 
a  blind  man  would  have  done.  Only  when  I  heard 
the  custodian's  chatter  did  I  recover  sight ;  only 
in  the  open  air  could  I  hreathe  freely. 

How  to  account  for  all  this  noise  and  shouting 
in  the  great  square  ?  The  sober  Hollanders  had 
lost  their  self-control  for  once.  A  herd  of  them 
flew  by  me  like  wild  deer,  across  the  gravel  in  the 
direction  of  the  Spui.  I  gave  chase  at  once,  deter 
mined  to  be  in  at  the  death,  if  that  were  possible. 
But  my  haste  got  the  better  of  me,  and  before  I 
could  check  myself,  I  had  plumped  into  the  waist 
coat  of  a  big  Dutchman,  who  bore  down  upon  me 
adversely  with  ponderous  swiftness.  He  stopped 
to  take  breath,  swinging  me  round  like  a  cat.  It 
was  only  the  giant  portier  of  the  Marshal  Turenne. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  gasped. 

He  was  in  no  condition  to  talk. 

"  Fire  !  "  was  all  he  said.  "  Fire  !  This  way, — 
come !  "  and  we  plunged  on  together. 

In  a  few  seconds  I  longed  for  wings.  We  turned 
from  the  Spui  into  the  narrow  street  thrice  familiar 
to  me.  I  knew  where  we  were  going.  My  guilty 
cry  passed  unnoticed  in  the  increasing  uproar,  but 
it  might  have  given  evidence  against  myself.  I 
had  opened  doors  and  windows  upon  fifty  candle- 
flames.  I  had  dropped  a  lighted  lamp  into  a  tin 
der-box.  I  knew  where  we  were  going.  The 
angry  cloud  of  smoke  above  us  interpreted  my 
fear. 


38  DA  Y  AND    NIGHT  STORIES. 

Our  way  was  already  blocked.  It  soon  became 
impassable.  Then  my  companion  turned  off  into 
a  maze  of  by-streets  and  slimy,  green  canals,  I  fol 
lowing  blindly.  We  made  a  long  detour,  crossing 
bridge  after  bridge,  and  coming  out  into  the  crowd 
again  ;  but  the  friendly  giant  ploughed  a  furrow 
in  it  with  his  shoulders,  dragging  me  behind  him. 
And  he  did  not  stop  until,  with  inarticulate  mur 
murs  of  satisfaction,  he  had  set  me  up  like  a  tenpin 
directly  in  front  of  the  burning  house,  but  on  the 
opposite  wall  of  the  canal.  One  —  two  —  three  — 
four  —  five.  I  counted  again  and  again.  I  had 
guessed  it.  The  house  was  the  fifth  from  the 
corner. 

I  saw  files  of  men  handing  water  in  buckets, 
others  working  madly  at  primitive  hand-engines  ; 
but  the  case  was  obviously  desperate.  Before  I 
had  recovered  my  breath,  the  roof  fell  in,  and  a 
shaft  of  flame  shot  up  into  the  sky. 

Near  us,  in  the  crowd,  a  workman  stood  talking 
and  gesticulating  to  his  neighbor,  and  as  the  best 
of  us  will  do  under  excitement,  repeating  over  and 
over  the  same  words. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  "  I  asked  the  portier. 

The  man  listened  a  moment,  then  translated 
the  speech. 

"  He  says  it  is  a  good  thing.  The  house  was 
haunted." 

"  What  ?     Listen  again.     Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  repeated  the  portier,  after  another  pause. 


THE  LOST  REMBRANDT.  39 

"  The  house  was  haunted.  No  one  has  lived  in  it 
since  thirty  years." 

"  Impossible  !  "  I  cried. 

The  man  misunderstood  me  of  course. 

"  Impossible,  perhaps,  in  your  country.  Here 
we  have  ghosts,"  he  said  with  the  serenity  of 
conviction. 

I  did  not  dispute  the  point,  and  we  stood  still 
for  some  time  huddled  together  in  an  ill-assorted 
group  of  all  ages,  sizes,  and  conditions.  The  fire 
roared  and  crackled  ;  the  sashes  of  the  drawing- 
room  were  like  the  bars  of  a  grate  ;  all  within  was 
a  live  coal.  I  stared  at  it  vacantly,  with  the  refrain 
of  that  unearthly  music  moaning  in  my  ears. 

At  last  I  turned  again  to  the  interpreter. 

"  Ask  the  fellow,"  1  said,  "  if  he  has  ever  heard 
of  one  Heer  Grafman,  living  here  in  the  quarter." 

"  What  for  a  name  is  that  ?  "  the  portier  asked. 

"  Grafman,  —  Mynheer  Grafman." 

"  Excuse  me  ;  one  must  have  made  a  mistake, 
—  that  cannot  be  the  name." 

"  Why  not,  pray  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  name  like  that  in  our  language. 
In  Dutch  that  means  —  " 

"  What  ?  "  I  urged  impatiently. 

"  It  means  '  one  come  out  of  the  grave.'  " 

"  You  are  right,"  said  I ;  "  there  has  been  some 
mistake.  You  need  not  ask.  That  cannot  be  the 
name." 


40  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

There  is  no  more  to  tell.  A  few  days  later  I 
left  The  Hague  ;  I  have  not  revisited  Holland,  and 
all  this  happened  years  ago.  It  is  a  ghost  of  my 
lost  youth,  but  one  that  never  can  be  laid.  Often 
in  the  summer  night,  I  hear  that  saddest  and 
sweetest  of  all  songs  in  a  troubled  dream  from 
which  my  own  despairing  cry  arouses  me  ;  and  I 
wake  in  tears,  to  find  myself  calling,  "  Yanna  ! 
Adriana  !  "  I  can  listen  to  no  other  music  ;  for 
me,  on  earth,  there  is  no  love  of  woman.  The  old 
delight  I  had  in  living  has  been  taken  from  me  ; 
but,  at  least,  I  live  on  calmly  and  no  longer  dread 
the  end.  All  fear  of  Death  is  gone,  —  I  know  no 
touch  of  it.  I  only  know  that  I  looked  into  those 
quiet  eyes,  and  that  I  ceased  to  find  them  terrible. 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  GRANITE. 


She,  though  in  full-blown  flower  of  glorious  beauty, 
Grows  cold,  even  in  the  summer  of  her  age. 

LEE  and  DRYDEN  :  (Edipus. 


I. 

HE  will  never  forget  his  first  sight  of  her. 
Half-unconsciously  she  had  drawn  apart 
from  one  of  the  merry  groups  on  the  lawn,  to  stand 
for  the  moment  alone,  looking  up  at  the  stars,  awed 
a  little  by  the  beauty  of  the  perfect  July  evening. 
The  moonlight  streamed  down  upon  her  golden 
hair ;  upon  her  face,  which,  if  not  wholly  faultless, 
had  faultless  lines  in  it  and  was  gentleness  itself ; 
while  the  pale  blue-and-white  Eastern  fabric  that 
she  wore  gave  her  slender  figure  an  unearthly  look, 
making  it  seem  like  an  effect  of  the  moonshine, 
ready  to  melt  away  if  one  drew  nearer.  But 
other  figures  came  and  went  between  her  and  the 
wide  expanse  of  glimmering  sea.  Two  of  them 
joined  her,  —  two  men  ;  and  she  did  not  vanish, 
but  smiled  and  spoke  with  them.  Though  he  could 
not  hear  the  words,  he  caught  the  sweet  tones  of 
her  voice,  saw  the  smile  clearly,  and  wished  it  were 


42  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

for  him.  He  had  met  more  beautiful  women,  per 
haps,  —  none  more  interesting  at  the  first  glance, 
he  was  sure.  At  the  thought  he  sighed  without 
knowing  it.  One  of  the  men  had  handed  her  a 
rose. 

His  friend  Mordaunt  must  always  smoke  his  two 
cigars  after  dinner,  though  the  sky  fell ;  and  so 
they  had  come  late  to  Mrs.  Shirley  Allerton's  mid 
summer  "  Small-and-early."  His  hostess  had  led 
him  out  of  her  reception-room  to  this  dark  corner 
of  the  veranda,  that  he  might  discover  at  once  how 
admirably  Nature  chimed  in  with  all  her  schemes 
of  artificial  entertainment.  On  the  whole  sweep  of 
Massachusetts  Bay  there  is  no  choicer  bit  of  coast 
line  than  North  Head,  and  she  wanted  him  to  tell 
her  so.  A  few  yards  out,  above  a  sunken  rock,  a 
great  white  breaker  perpetually  rose  and  fell,  — 
her  breaker,  she  called  it.  And,  indeed,  it  seemed 
to  be  always  the  same  wave,  always  tumbling  over 
and  over  there  at  her  command.  That  was  her 
moon  too  while  it  lasted  ;  she  could  not  have  that 
always.  Even  the  wife  of  Allerton,  the  eminent 
historian,  all-powerful  in  her  social  world,  lost  her 
control  of  things,  and  confessed  herself  baffled 
and  valueless,  somewhere  just  on  this  side  of  the 
spheres. 

From  a  distant  room,  where  there  was  dancing, 
faint  notes  of  harp  and  violin  came  out  to  them, 
and  mingled  with  the  deeper  music  of  the  shore. 
Her  guest  undertook  to  admire  all  the  sights  and 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  43 

sounds  she  indicated,  and  he  did  so,  for  the  moment, 
heartily.  Then,  suddenly,  while  she  talked  on,  his 
look  and  thought  were  arrested  on  the  wing. 

"  Lovely  !  "  he  murmured  in  an  undertone  which 
expressed  more  and  less  than  that  he  had  before 
employed. 

His  hostess  saw  what  he  meant,  and  smiled. 
"  Yes,  is  n't  she  ?  That  is  Sylvia  Belknap.  Come  ! 
I  want  you  to  know  her."  And  moving  out  toward 
the  little  group  she  continued,  in  the  same  breath  : 
"  Miss  Belknap,  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Luxmore,  who 
has  just  come  home  to  us  again." 

The  men  drew  back,  one  of  them  proving  to  be 
Allerton  himself  ;  the  second,  only  Mordaunt,  Lux- 
more's  bosom  friend.  Another  group  formed,  and 
in  its  turn,  broke  up  ;  so  that  presently  the  two 
just  introduced  were  left  alone.  Luxmore,  looking 
at  his  companion,  felt  vague  relief  at  that  and  at 
something  else.  It  was  Allerton  who  had  given 
her  the  rose. 

At  that  time  Luxmore's  work  had  its  small  cir 
cle  of  friendly  critics  who  discerned  signs  of  prom 
ise  in  it ;  but  he  was  an  unknown  painter  to  the 
great  mass  of  humankind.  Even  those  who  liked 
his  pictures  so  well  as  to  buy  them,  at  low  prices, 
never  ventured  to  predict  for  him  what  is  called 
"  a  future ; "  and  in  their  saner  moments  they 
could  only  feel  that  their  monej*,  represented  by 
his  few  feet  of  decorative  canvas,  was  safely  put 
out  of  the  way.  To  be  sure  he  knew  how  to  draw 


44  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

the  human  figure,  and  his  bits  were  strong  in 
color ;  he  had  passed  several  years  in  Paris  and 
had  improved  his  advantages.  That  he  had  talent 
was  obvious  from  their  recognition  of  him  ;  but  he 
also  had  an  income  enabling  him  to  live, — frugally, 
it  is  true,  but  still  to  live.  He  was  a  slow  worker, 
with  a  tendency  to  doubt  himself  that  often  brought 
down  upon  him  the  reproach  of  indolence.  His 
annual  product  was  ridiculously  small.  He  had 
come  back  this  time  to  stay,  as  every  decent  Amer 
ican  of  his  age  should  do,  of  course.  But  here,  at 
thirty-five,  with  his  temperament,  important  work 
could  hardly  be  expected  of  him.  A  good-humored, 
handsome  fellow,  always  well-met  in  society,  he 
would  be  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Yet  in  his 
art,  it  was  more  than  likely  that  his  best  word  had 
been  already  spoken. 

His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  very  young ; 
he  could  but  just  remember  her.  He  was  the  only 
child,  left  in  the  care  of  a  father  who  was  easy 
going  and  indulgent.  The  boy  had  grown  up  like 
a  weed,  making  no  mark  in  college  other  than  the 
score  of  his  debts,  which  had  led  to  more  or  less 
trouble  at  home.  But  after  the  reproof  the  money 
was  always  forthcoming ;  and  his  father  sorrowfully 
admitted  to  himself  that,  on  the  whole,  his  son's 
youth  was  steadier  than  his  own  had  been.  All 
boys  were  wild,  he  supposed  ;  but  time  would  cure 
that.  His  boy's  heart  was  in  the  right  place. 
He  must  have  his  fling.  As  for  the  money, 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  45 

there  would  be  enough  in  the  end,  if  things  went 
well. 

But  the  end  came  suddenly,  and  things  went  ill. 
The  father  died  without  a  moment's  warning,  the 
estate  proved  to  be  heavily  involved,  and  Luxmore 
was  left  high  and  dry  with  a  small  income,  helped 
out  only  by  the  trifling  sum  inherited  from  his 
mother.  This  change  sobered  him  at  once.  His 
fling  was  over.  He  determined  now  to  make  the 
most  of  a  serious  existence  ;  whatever  enjoyment 
was  to  be  found  in  it  should  be  his.  And  having 
artistic  tastes  and  qualities,  he  chose  the  painter's 
profession,  for  the  love  of  it,  not  for  its  precarious 
reward.  If  he  succeeded,  why,  well  and  good  ;  if 
not,  he  would  burn  his  brushes,  take  up  the  pen, 
and  turning  critic,  instruct  and  irritate  the  success 
ful.  Even  failure  thus  might  bring  in  its  compen 
sations.  But  these  must  be  his  last  resort ;  he 
was  not  disposed  to  fall  back  upon  them  just  yet. 

Nor  did  he  ever  need  in  this  manner  to  call  his 
reserve  forces  into  play.  The  difficult  task  of  set 
ting  the  world  on  fire  had  yet  to  be  accomplished. 
But  if  his  work  never  went  very  far,  it  was  always 
thorough  ;  and  the  limited  following  to  which  he 
appealed  respected  him  through  all  the  hours  of 
self-distrust  that  now  succeeded.  He  had  served 
a  long  apprenticeship  of  preparation  for  a  higher 
flight.  When  his  friends  urged  the  attempt  upon 
him,  he  only  shook  his  head ;  till  gradually  they 
came  to  fear  that  he  would  never  make  it.  The 


46  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

torch  had  been  passed  on  to  him,  undoubtedly,  with 
the  spark  still  glowing.  Why  did  he  not  draw  one 
deep  breath  and  kindle  that  shining  point  into  a 
flame  ? 

It  is  always  easy  to  defend  with  a  wise  proverb 
any  defect  or  idiosyncrasy  of  our  own.  And  Lux- 
more  might  well  have  answered  these  spiritual 
inciters  that,  in  hastening  slowly,  he  was  but  obey 
ing  an  important  precept  of  the  sages,  another  of 
whose  laws  he  endeavored  with  zealous  devotion  to 
fulfil.  He  studied  himself  assiduously,  as  do  all 
good  artists,  whatever  be  the  medium  in  which 
they  work.  And  in  consequence,  far  from  shield 
ing  himself  with  a  delusive  epigram,  he  went,  as 
has  already  been  intimated,  straight  to  the  opposite 
extreme,  and  was  inclined  to  undervalue  himself. 
Certain  elements  were  entirely  wanting  in  him,  as 
he  had  reason  to  fear.  How  had  he  done  so  much 
without  them  ?  The  wonder  was  that  he  could  do 
anything  at  all  ? 

Love,  for  instance,  still  remained  an  unknown 
quantity  in  his  personal  experience.  Was  he,  then, 
never  to  feel  the  racking  torment,  the  unutterable 
sorrow,  the  inexpressible  joy  that  poets  have  rung 
their  changes  on  these  thousand  years  ?  One  by 
one  his  friends  had  dropped  away,  confiding  to  him, 
as  they  went,  their  woes  and  their  delights,  to  which 
he  had  listened  with  an  amiable,  unsympathetic 
smile.  Wait  till  you  are  caught,  they  had  retorted ; 
and  he  had  smiled  again,  incredulously,  envying 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.          47 

them,  wondering  at  them.  His  own  boyish  fancies 
of  the  past  had  been  quite  too  unimportant  to  con 
fide  at  all ;  even  to  recall  them  demanded  a  positive 
effort  of  the  mind,  turning  back  through  countless 
blank  leaves  of  intervening  years  during  which 
the  little  shameless  bowman  had  never  revealed 
himself  to  Luxmore  ;  never  drawn  a  single  arrow 
from  the  quiver  upon  his  account ;  never  stooped  to 
brush  him  by  with  so  much  as  the  tip  of  a  wing. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Had  the  heart  for  love  been 
left  out  of  him,  as  the  eye  for  color  is  from  one 
man,  the  ear  for  music  from  another  ?  If  so,  to 
the  winds  with  all  ambitious  strivings ;  undoubtedly, 
thought  he,  love  has  played  its  part  in  all  lives  that 
were  worthy  to  be  written.  Not  to  love  was  not  to 
soar  ;  to  be  a  creature  of  earth,  not  the  eagle,  but 
the  strutting  monarch  of  the  dunghill,  —  inferior 
to  him,  even,  for  the  barnyard  fowl  has  wings  that 
he  might  use,  if  he  were  so  minded.  To  want 
wings  altogether  was  to  be  cruelly  handicapped. 
To  find  the  highest  of  all  earthly  conditions  incom 
prehensible  seemed  equivalent  to  an  admission  of 
mediocrity.  Commonplace  was  the  only  term  ap 
plicable  to  such  a  nature.  And  as  the  nature,  so 
the  work  must  be. 

This  conclusion. lamentable  as  it  sounded, should 
have  been  his  encouragement ;  since  the  true  grov 
elling  spirit  is  content  to  grovel  and  does  not  con 
cern  itself  with  whys  and  wherefores.  It  might 
also  have  led  him  (though,  happily  or  unhappily,  it 


48  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

did  nothing  of  the  kind)  to  ask  himself  precisely 
how  far  this  apparent  invulnerability  was  to  be 
trusted  in  a  close  encounter.  The  vigorous  man 
who  has  never  known  a  day's  illness  suffers  most 
when  the  fever  strikes  him  down  ;  and  love  is  the 
most  insidious  and  malignant  of  all  fevers.  Its 
germs  are  flying  everywhere.  From  eighteen  to 
eighty,  none  of  us  is  really  safe  one  hour.  Nay, 
more  ;  it  may  safely  be  asserted  that  none  ever 
escapes  a  serious  attack  of  it.  And  all  in  vain  the 
scoffer  would  confute  this  with  shining  instances 
of  celibacy  like  Lord  Macaulay  and  Leonardo  da 
Vinci.  These  were  strong,  wise  men,  who  burned 
their  documents,  who  locked  their  feelings  up  and 
flung  away  the  key.  But  on  that  final  day  when 
all  hearts  shall  be  laid  bare,  love's  scars  surely  will 
be  found  even  upon  these.  The  hermit  shows  you 
his  cell  triumphantly,  and  assures  you  it  is  an  open 
book,  thus  telling  the  truth  with  intent  to  deceive  ; 
for  his  book  proves  to  be  written  in  a  strange 
character  that  he  alone  can  read.  Though  the 
skull  and  hour-glass  are  his  only  obvious 'furniture, 
they  form,  in  fact,  a  very  small  portion  of  the 
baggage  buried  with  him  in  the  cloister. 

Luxmore,  as  it  happened,  was  neither  sage  nor 
hero,  and  in  a  few  moments  Miss  Belknap  skilfully 
contrived  to  make  him  do  the  thing  of  all  others 
he  usually  desired  to  avoid,  —  namely,  to  talk  about 
himself.  But  to-night  he  was  off  his  guard ;  and 
his  companion,  provokingly  sympathetic,  put  intel- 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  49 

ligent  questions  that  showed  her  knowledge  of  the 
art  he  pursued  to  be  something  more  than  a  theo 
retic  one.  Of  his  individual  work  she  knew  noth 
ing  whatever.  This  disappointed  him  a  little,  but 
it  did  not  surprise  him.  A  Luxmore,  to  be  sure, 
hung  in  the  very  house  behind  them.  But  one 
might  pass  it  by  a  dozen  times  unnoticed,  or  notice 
it  only  to  forget  it,  he  supposed.  In  answer  to  his 
question  she  admitted  that  she  could  draw  and 
paint  in  a  small  way  for  her  own  amusement.  And 
then  she  turned  the  talk  straight  back  to  him,  and 
made  him  tell  her  of  his  life  abroad,  of  the  strange 
people  he  had  met  there,  the  friends  he  had  found, 
—  the  better  to  listen  leading  him  away  from  the 
music  and  the  dancers,  along  the  cliff,  to  a  turn  in 
the  path  where  a  bench  had  been  placed  fronting 
the  sea  and  just  out  of  sight  of  the  house.  Here, 
with  Mrs.  Allerton's  breaker  tossing  high  its  foam 
before  him,  Luxmore  revived  recollections  that, 
beginning  joyously,  ended  by  having  a  mournful 
note  in  them,  as  such  recitals  are  apt  to  do.  And 
both  the  joy  and  the  sadness  were  echoed  by  the 
girl  at  his  side,  whose  interest  in  all  he  said  was 
quite  unfeigned,  and  who  had  already  become  a 
part  of  his  life.  He  had  known  her  half  an  hour, 
yet  he  seemed  to  have  known  her  always  ;  the 
acquaintance  had  but  just  begun,  and  they  were 
old  friends. 

They  had  been  speaking  of  the  lt  painters'  paint 
ers,"  as  Luxmore  called  them,  —  the  men  whom 

4 


50  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

their  fellows  agree  in  admiring,  whose  sketches  are 
treasured  in  dim  studio  corners,  but  whose  com 
pleted  work  fails  to  touch  the  public  heart,  or 
gains  tardy  appreciation  only  when  the  hand  and 
brain  that  toiled  for  it  are  beyond  the  need  of 
toiling.  A  common  fate  enough.  All  the  arts, 
in  all  the  ages,  have  developed  such  builders  for 
posterity,  and  their  great  triumphal  arch  is  still 
unfinished. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luxmore,  "  I  believe  that  we  should 
all  fare  better  to  live  upon  the  fruits  of  our  an 
cestors,  sealing  up  our  own  rare  products  for  a 
later  generation.  Some  men,  it  is  true,  learn  how 
to  hit  the  present ;  but  others  never  can,  —  then 
death  sweeps  them  away  into  the  past,  and  behold, 
they  are  immortal !  There  was  a  poor  friend  of 
mine  who  died  last  year,  obscure,  unrecognized. 
To-day,  at  the  sales,  the  amateurs  wrangle  for  two 
strokes  of  his  brush.  I  wonder  if  he  knows  ?  " 

"  Was  he  an  American  ?  "  Miss  Belknap  asked. 

"  Yes,  though  not  a  good  one.  Something,  I 
don't  know  what,  led  him  to  forsake  his  native 
land  for  a  French  village  in  the  forest  of  Saint 
Germain.  Once  there  he  never  left  it.  Those  who 
cared  for  him  had  to  seek  him  out.  But  they  were 
always  sure  of  a  welcome  and  something  more. 
There  was  much  in  the  man  worth  studying  be 
sides  patience  and  frugality.  Yet  he  called  us  his 
master-pupils,  and  declared  that,  in  our  game  of 
give  and  take,  the  advantage  was  all  his." 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  51 

Miss  Belknap  opened  her  fan  and  gently  smoothed 
its  ruffled  feathers. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  your  recluse  ?  "  she 
inquired. 

"It  will  say  nothing  to  you,  for  no  one  here  re 
members  him.  And  yet  he  used  to  tell  me  that 
he  had  left  his  masterpiece  in  America ;  his  first 
sketch  for  it  is  mine  now.  I  would  give  the  world 
to  see  the  picture.  But  how  shall  I  ?  A  needle 
in  a  haystack !  One  might  look  from  here  to 
San  Francisco  and  never  find  it.  Why  do  you 
laugh?" 

"  Because  you  have  quite  forgotten  my  question. 
No  matter,  I  will  answer  it.  The  painter's  name 
was  Scldcn." 

Luxmore  started. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  From  your  description  of  course.  And  the 
picture  you  would  give  the  world  to  see  is  a  fly 
ing  wood-nymph.  Well,  give  me  the  world,  and 
I  will  show  it  to  you." 

"  No,"  said  Luxmore,  laughing,  u  you  will  show 
it  to  me  for  nothing,  if  you  are  charitable." 

Miss  Belknap  rose  and  caught  up  the  silken  coil 
of  her  train. 

"  Shall  we  go  now  ? "  she  asked. 

"By  all  means,  —  but  where?" 

"  Do  you  see  those  lights  upon  the  shore  ?  No, 
the  others,  farther  off.  That  is  my  house  ;  the 
picture  is  there.  Come !  " 


52  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

Springing  lightly  down  the  path  as  she  spoke, 
she  looked  back  for  him  to  follow. 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Let  me  bring  your  wrap," 
said  he. 

"  Come ! "  she  repeated,  stamping  her  foot  im 
patiently.  "  Or  I  shall  change  my  mind,  and  you 
will  never  see  the  picture.  It  is  but  a  step,  —  in 
ten  minutes  we  can  be  there  and  back  again.  Take 
care  ;  you  will  break  your  neck." 

The  way  was  so  narrow  that  they  could  not  walk 
abreast.  So  he  followed  her  obediently,  by  trim 
lawns  and  gardens  that  swept  back  to  lamp-lit 
houses  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other  the  summer 
surf  advanced  and  retreated  lazily,  then  bounded 
back  almost  to  her  feet.  Its  phosphorescent  gleams 
seemed  to  play  about  her  ;  she  gained  upon  him, 
disappearing  and  shining  out  again  fitfully,  like  a 
will-o'-the-wisp  of  the  sea.  He  begged  her  to  stop, 
and  found  her  waiting  at  a  turnstile,  through  which 
they  passed,  over  turf  that  felt  like  velvet  to  a 
large,  old-fashioned  house,  well  lighted,  with  doors 
and  windows  wide  open.  In  one  of  the  ground- 
floor  rooms  sat  a  placid,  middle-aged  woman, 
knitting  under  a  lamp.  As  they  went  by  she 
looked  up. 

"  Sylvia  ! "  she  called. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  girl,  but  without  stopping 
led  the  way  into  a  hall  crowded  with  curious  ob 
jects,  like  some  cabinet  in  a  fine  museum.  Lux- 
more  had  only  a  confused  impression  of  these 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  53 

things,  as  be  was  hurried  along  into  a  dark  cor 
ridor  behind,  where  Miss  Belknap  kept  him  wait 
ing  while  she  found  a  candle  and  lighted  it,  going 
on  immediately  to  a  closed  door,  which  she  un 
locked  and  opened  to  admit  him,  like  a  willing 
dog  at  her  heels. 

He  stopped  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  for  there 
was  no  other  light  than  the  uncertain  one  she  car 
ried.  The  room  was  bare,  and  plainly  furnished, 
with  a  forsaken  look  and  chilly  air,  as  though  it 
were  rarely  used.  On  the  wall  he  caugbt  a  glimpse 
of  the  picture  they  had  come  to  see.  Then  Miss 
Belknap,  who  had  moved  toward  it,  gave  a  startled 
exclamation,  scarcely  audible,  wThich  she  at  once 
suppressed,  and  the  candle  went  out, — with  her 
help  he  was  sure.  He  heard  her  rustling  forward 
in  the  dark.  The  shutters  were  closed,  but  one  of 
their  upper  leaves  had  unfolded,  letting  a  bar  of 
moonlight  slant  down  close  by  the  picture  upon  the 
wall  and  upon  her  as  she  came  out  into  it,  putting 
up  her  hand  toward  the  frame  with  a  quick  move 
ment  that  he  could  not  follow.  She  was  there 
and  gone  again  in  a  flash,  coming  back  to  him 
and  laughing. 

"  How  stupid ! "  she  said,  as  if  to  show  him  that 
the  light  had  gone  out  by  accident.  "  Now  I  must 
find  the  bell,  if  I  can,  and  ring  for  matches." 

"  No  !  Take  mine  !  "  said  Luxmore,  offering  his 
match-box  with  one  hand,  and  groping  for  her  with 
the  other.  He  touched  her  face,  her  hair ;  but  she 


54  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

slipped  away,  and  kneeling  down,  let  him  go  by 
her,  as  though  it  were  a  game  of  blind-man's-buff. 

"  Where  are  you  ? "  he  cried,  in  the  moonlight 
now,  but  more  in  the  dark  than  ever. 

"  Here  ! "  she  answered  in  a  laughing  whisper, 
close  behind  him.  Then  she  took  his  hand  and 
placed  the  candle  in  it.  And  between  them,  with 
some  difficulty,  the  flame  flashed  up  again.  What 
was  there  in  his  look,  he  wondered,  that  made  her 
change  color  and  turn  away  from  it.  He  had  not 
been  thinking  of  himself.  But  now,  as  he  did  so, 
he  felt  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  in  danger. 

Selden  was  quite  right.  He  had  never  done 
anything  so  good  as  this  poor  little  nymph,  flying 
breathless  from  some  unseen  pursuer.  Even  in 
the  insufficient  light  Luxmore  was  convinced  of 
that.  The  quality  of  the  flesh,  the  modelling,  the 
color,  the  composition,  were  all  remarkable. 

u  Poor  Selden !  "  he  muttered,  after  a  long  look 
in  silence.  This  was  like  seeing  a  ghost,  and  when 
Miss  Belknap,  who  had  stood  aside,  watching  him, 
suggested  that  lamps  should  be  brought,  he  would 
not  hear  of  it.  He  was  not  sure  of  hjmself  ;  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  After  all,  it  is  always  there,"  she  said.  "  You 
will  see  it  by  day,  I  hope." 

"  Yes  ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  come." 

His  tone  struck  her.  She  held  the  light  above 
her  head  in  a  becoming  attitude,  looking  at  him 
curiously. 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND    GRANITE.  55 

"  A  little  for  the  picture,  —  a  little  too  for  me. 
We  have  had  such  a  pleasant  talk.  There  are 
many  things  I  want  to  ask  you.  I  am  sure  we 
shall  be  friends." 

"  We  are  already,"  said  lie,  taking  the  hand  she 
offered,  with  a  smile.  Then,  as  she  turned  to  go, 
he  sprang  forward  quickly  and  opened  the  door. 
In  doing  this  he  felt  that  his  foot  was  entangled 
in  some  light  substance  that  clung  persistently. 

"•  What  have  I  brought  with  me  ? "  he  asked, 
holding  up  a  knot  of  crape  with  flying  ends  that 
had  wound  themselves  about  his  ankle.  "A  badge 
of  mourning  ?  " 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  said  indifferently.  "  Let 
it  lie  there,  —  anywhere.  Will  you  lock  the  door 
and  give  me  the  key  ?  Make  haste  ;  we  are  play 
ing  truant,  —  we  belong  to-night  to  Mrs.  Shirley 
Allerton." 

As  they  walked  back  Luxmore  was  silent,  drop 
ping  behind  again.  At  the  end  of  the  path  she 
turned  upon  him  with  a  playful  reproach. 

"Not  one  word?"  she  said.  "You  are  gloomy 
as  the  grave." 

"  It  is  your  own  fault,"  he  answered ;  "  you  set 
the  current  of  my  thoughts."  And  after  a  pause, 
when  they  came  within  hearing  of  the  music,  with 
in  sight  of  the  dancers,  he  added,  "  So  you  knew 
Seldeii  ? " 

She  smiled,  speaking  lightly,  but  in  a  tone  that 
betrayed  some  slight  embarrassment.  "  Oh,  yes. 


56  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

I  thought  I  told  you.  I  had  a  great  regard  for 
him.  Here  comes  the  best  waltzer  in  the  world. 
Do  you  think  he  means  to  dance  with  me  ?  Yes  ; 
you  are  released.  But  you  won't  forget  the  way 
to  my  door,  will  you  ?  " 

She  went  off  with  the  other  man,  and  Luxmore, 
returning  to  the  bench  where  they  had  talked 
together,  sat  there  for  a  while  alone. 

"  A  great  regard  !  "  he  thought.  "  That 's  the 
sort  of  thing  a  woman  says  of  the  poor  dog  who 
has  had  his  day  with  her.  I  wonder  if  Selden  lost 
his  head  and  returned  her  regard  with  interest. 
That  would  explain  him.  She  had  tied  the  bit  of 
crape  about  his  picture,  and  was  ashamed  to  let  me 
see  it.  Why  ?  Now  that  he  is  safe  she  cares  for 
him  too  much  perhaps.  And  I  am  winding  myself 
up  with  thoughts  as  melancholy  as  the  crape  itself. 
She  was  right.  I  am  gloomy  as  the  grave.  If  I 
were  superstitious  I  should  call  it  a  bad  omen  to 
have  Selden's  mantle  fall  on  me.  But  my  head  is 
sound  as  a  nut,  and  I  am  safe,  —  entirely  safe.  The 
devil  take  her  !  What  do  I  care  about  the  girl  ?" 

Then  he  walked  up  to  the  ball-room  window 
and  saw  her  for  the  first  time  in  a  good  light. 
She  was  older  than  he  had  thought,  —  twenty-five 
or  twenty-six,  he  dared  say.  Yes,  she  might  well 
have  had  that  little  affair  with  Selden.  How  grace 
fully  she  danced  !  The  younger  girls  were  con 
scious  and  awkward  in  comparison  with  her, — 
mere  jointed  dolls.  Others  beside  himself  were 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  57 

following   with   their   looks   the  golden   hair,   the 
clear,  blue,  laughing  eyes.     When  she  stopped,  a 
small  court  f owned  about  her,  cutting  her  oft'  from 
view.     Then  Luxmore,  gloomier  than  ever,   went 
into  the  house,  and  keeping  out  of  her  way  forced 
himself  to  say  cheerful  nothings  wittily  to  the  first 
good  soul  he  met.     So  he  passed  on  front  one  old 
friend  to  another,  till   the  clouds  lifting  left  him 
in  a  better  frame  of  mind.     If  not  precisely  a  full- 
grown  lion,  he  was    looked   upon   as   one   of   the 
whelps  ;  and  he  could  not  be  wholly  insensible  to 
that  deference  which  poor  humanity  always  pays  to 
the  lords  of  the  menagerie.     Later  he  found  him 
self  once  more  comparing  notes  with  his  hostess. 
"  Well,  did  you  like  her  ?"  she  inquired. 
"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"  Sylvia,  —  Miss  Belknap,  of  course." 
"  Perfection,  —  but  for  one  fault.     She  does  not 
know  my  work." 

"  Poor  sensitive  plant !     You  have  the  vice  of 
genius.     You  are  exactly  like  my  husband." 

"Agreed,  with  thanks;  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is.  Her  fault  may  be  overcome." 
"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  he.  "  Tell 
me  — "  he  had  a  question  about  Miss  Belknap  on 
his  lips  and  behind  it  a  dozen  others.  But  he 
suppressed  them  all,  and  asked  something  alto 
gether  different.  On  the  whole  he  preferred  to 
get  his  information  elsewhere. 


58  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

II. 

THE  opportunity  came  an  hour  afterward  when 
he  and  Mordaunt  exchanged  their  impressions 
of  the  evening,  in  loose  attire,  over  a  final  cigar. 
John  Mordaunt  rolled  through  the  world  in  wealth, 
the  type  of  jollity.  He  was  short  and  round  and 
ruddy;  bald  as  a  globe;  with  a  nimble  wit;  and 
an  inner  man  so  nicely  adjusted  to  his  outer  one 
that  he  was  happy  in  himself,  and  in  all  things 
appertaining  to  him.  His  wife  and  children  were 
the  best  that  ever  lived  ;  his  house  in  town  was 
the  most  comfortable  that  could  be  contrived, 
if  not  the  grandest ;  his  country-house  and  this 
again  at  North  Head  fell  little  behind  it  in  his 
own  estimation,  and  were  in  fact  admirably  well- 
ordered.  He  prided  himself  upon  his  social  judg 
ments,  incisively  pronounced  and  dangerously 
true,  —  so  that  those  who  did  not  like  him  had  a 
wholesome  fear  of  him  ;  and  his  blunt  sincerity  made 
him  troops  of  friends.  He  was  fond  of  quoting  Sir 
Peter's  conclusions  about  sentiment,  a  disposition 
of  the  mind  which  he  attributed  to  dyspepsia  ;  but 
he  stated  this  so  often  as  to  betray  a  conscious 
weakness  of  his  own  in  that  respect,  especially  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  his  courtship  had  been  a  sen 
timental  one,  and  that  he  had  grown  domestic  to 
the  last  degree.  He  had  long  been  intimate  with 
Roger  Luxmore,  whom  he  admired  for  the  imagi- 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.          59 

native  qualities  which  were  lacking  in  himself.  He 
had  none  of  the  creative  faculty,  but  was  a  born 
critic,  whose  powers  ran  to  waste.  Unfortunately 
he  could  live  without  cultivating  them,  without  ap 
plication  to  hard  labor  of  any  kind.  It  was  only 
to  quiet  his  conscience  that  he  took  his  ease  in 
his  office  and  dabbled  in  the  law. 

Luxmore  knew  that  his  friend  must  have  definite 
views  about  so  important  a  figure  as  Miss  Belknap 
already  appeared  to  him  to  be.  But  while  he  was 
preparing  his  first  ingenious  question,  Mordaunt, 
without  warning,  plunged  straight  into  the  heart 
of  the  subject. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  Lady  Sylvia  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  saw  her  making  off  with  you." 

"Not  wholly  unattractive,"  said  Luxmore,  cau 
tiously  ;  "  and  with  a  good  eye  for  color,  —  she 
wore  just  the  right  one." 

"  I  am  glad  it 's  no  worse.  She  did  not,  then, 
intoxicate  you  ? " 

"  You  forget  that  I  'm  an  old  bird,"  said  Lux- 
more,  smiling;  "the  wine  I  drink  must  be  made 
of  grapes.  But  tell  me  something  about  her.  Se 
riously,  she  did  interest  me  a  little." 

"  Then  mark  my  words.  Beware  of  her.  She 
is  hard  as  flint,  and  will  never  be  otherwise  ;  for 
she  inherited  hardness  as  she  did  her  money. 
Her  father  and  grandfather  before  her  were  mere 
ossifications." 

Of  these  words  Luxmore  marked  onlv  one.     He 


60  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

had  often  sworn  to  himself  that,  come  what  might, 
lie  would  never  ask  a  rich  woman  to  be  his  wife, 
and  now  his  heart  sank.  "  What !  "  he  thought. 
"  Do  I  love  her,  then,  already  ?  " 

"  So  she  has  money,"  was  all  he  said  aloud. 

"  Coffers,  Roger,  coffers.  And  she  is  charitable 
too  in  her  way  ;  she  subscribes  well.  But  no  for 
tune-hunter  will  ever  spend  one  penny  of  it ;  no 
good  fellow  lives  that  will  ever  share  it  with  her. 
Make  a  note  of  that ;  you  will  see." 

"  I  see  that  you  take  a  great  deal  for  granted," 
returned  Luxmore,  laughing. 

"  Laugh  if  you  like,  you  don't  know  her  as  I  do. 
You  have  lived  in  France,  where  the  women,  with 
all  their  faults,  are  women  still.  God  bless  them, 
every  one,  I  say ;  but  not  a  type  like  this,  which 
is  getting  to  be  far  too  common  here  at  home. 
There 's  no  sentimental  nonsense  about  me,  you 
may  be  sure,  but  I  want  a  woman  to  be  tender 
and  gentle,  and  to  show  a  proper  weakness,  —  in 
short,  to  be  flesh  and  blood,  and  not  a  cold  ab 
straction.  The  girls  nowadays  seem  to  think  that 
their  only  duty  is  to  improve  their  minds.  They 
refine  themselves  to  death  ;  they  won't  look  at  a 
man,  they  want  a  demi-god.  He  never  comes ; 
and  they  live  single  and  passionless,  die,  and  bury 
their  talent  in  the  grave.  What  good  have  they 
done  the  world  with  all  their  delightful  intellectu 
ality  ?  They  were  born  to  hand  it  down.  It 's 
their  only  excuse  for  being." 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  61 

"  Your  happy  household  is  your  best  argument," 
said  Luxmore ;  "  but  think  of  the  risk  they  run 
in  saying  '  yes.'  Look  around  you  at  the  unhappy 
marriages." 

"  Nonsense.  The  man  runs  his  risk,  does  n't 
he  ?  Why  not  the  woman  ?  Because  she  is  too 
self-centred  ;  she  will  not  let  herself  go  a  single 
instant.  What  we  call  love  implies  some  sacri 
fice  ;  she  would  not  make  it  if  she  could.  Look  at 
the  case  in  point.  Here  is  Sylvia  Belknap,  young, 
lovely,  rich  beyond  reckoning.  She  has  no  near 
relatives ;  she  lives  alone  with  her  servants  and  her 
companion,  Miss  Winchester.  It  is  the  most  selfish 
and  limited  of  lives.  She  writes  her  checks,  studies 
her  art  and  her  philosophy,  cuts  the  leaves  of  her 
review,  dines,  dances,  and  her  day  is  done.  Un 
luckily  her  coldness,  that  should  repel,  attracts. 
More  than  one  better  man  than  she  deserves  to 
get,  has  dangled  after  her  and  come  to  grief.  She 
cannot  understand  it,  she  has  improved  all  anti 
quated  ideas  away.  I  have  no  patience  with  such 
a  temperament.  Her  smile  makes  me  think  of  a 
vein  of  quartz  in  its  granite  setting.  She  is  like 
that  reef  out  there,  —  the  waves  rush  at  it,  and  the 
biggest  can  only  dash  itself  to  pieces.  What  are 
you  laughing  at  now  ?  " 

"  Only  to  think  that  the  gods  made  Mordaunt 
poetical." 

"  Fudge  !  "  said  Mordaunt,  flinging  away  his 
cigar,  and  bustling  about  to  lock  the  windows. 


62  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  It  takes  a  good  strong  simile  to  touch  you  ;  and 
you  are  a  little  on  my  conscience.  I  want  to  see 
you  married,  —  though  not  to  Lady  Sylvia,  as  my 
wife  persists  in  calling  her.  Ugh  !  East  wind, 
again  !  After  all  that  girl  is  the  natural  product 
of  our  cursed  climate.  Had  she  been  born  with 
feelings,  ten  to  one  they  would  have  been  chilled 
out  of  her.  Past  two  o'clock!  'And  so  to  bed,' 
as  Pepys  says." 

Mordaunt's  random  shot  about  similes  was  really 
apt  enough.  It  would  have  taken  one  far  stronger 
than  any  he  had  invented  to  make  a  deep  impres 
sion  upon  Luxmore  in  this  instance.  Well  begun 
is  more  than  half  done  in  matters  of  the  heart. 
The  affections,  once  engaged,  benumb  the  reason. 
No  two  men  can  agree  precisely  concerning  the 
color  of  an  object.  They  do  not  see  it  with  the 
same  eyes.  And  their  views  are  even  more  at 
variance  in  the  discussion  of  a  character.  There  is 
no  rule  of  proportion  accurately  to  determine  that. 
The  lines  which  to  one  are  clear  and  well  defined 
are  blurred  and  iridescent  to  the  other.  Sharp  at 
tack  provokes  skilful  defence ;  and  argument,  usually 
profitless,  here  becomes  absolutely  futile.  To  warn 
a  man  against  a  woman  on  whom  his  eyes  have  once 
looked  longingly  is  to  raise  up  for  her  a  champion. 

So  the  friendly  caution  went  in  at  one  ear  and 
out  at  the  other,  dismissed  by  Luxmore  as  an 
absurd  bit  of  social  prejudice  the  moment  Miss 
Belknap's  influence  exerted  itself  again.  Of  course 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  63 

she  had  her  suitors  ;  how  could  she  help  that  ?  Of 
course  she  would  marry  when  the  right  man  came 
along ;  how  could  any  one  suppose  the  contrary  ? 
To  choose  wisely  was  her  affair  ;  not  to  choose  at 
all  would  be  her  misfortune,  rather  than  the  world's. 
She  lived  in  a  land  of  liberty.  No  law,  written  or 
unwritten,  could  compel  her  to  marry  for  the  sake 
of  pleasing  the  bystanders.  The  doctrine  of  hered 
ity  was  well  enough,  if  well  worked  out ;  but  who 
could  describe  its  limits,  verify  its  laws  ?  What 
would  it  matter  that  her  father  and  grandfather 
had  been  cut  in  adamant,  if  some  forgotten  ances 
tor,  blessed  with  a  warm  heart,  had  transmitted 
his  gentleness  to  her  ? 

These  reflections  followed  hard  upon  the  visit 
Luxmore  paid  her,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of 
seeing  Selden's  nymph  by  day.  The  abandoned 
room  had  been  opened  to  the  air  and  sunlight ;  but 
there  had  been  no  other  attempt  to  make  it  habita 
ble.  On  a  table  were  scattered  brushes  and  tubes 
of  color ;  in  one  corner  stood  an  empty  easel.  Her 
work  was  not  worth  showing,  she  said  ;  she  had 
given  it  all  up  now  ;  some  day,  perhaps,  she  might 
try  again,  more  seriously.  If  there  were  only  some 
one  to  help  her  out.  She  felt  the  need  of  a  good 
master,  —  the  incentive  that  men  acquired  in  a 
Parisian  atelier.  She  was  glad  to  hear  that  he  had 
taken  a  studio  in  town.  His  influence  would  be  of 
the  best,  she  knew.  Directly  and  indirectly  a  man 
of  high  aims  always  did  so  much.  By  the  force  of 


64  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

his  example  he  would  teach  others  to  desire  some 
thing  more  than  money-getting,  to  strive  for  an  ideal. 

Thus  flattered  and  humored  Luxmore  yielded  to 
the  spell  of  her  potent  personality,  and  carried 
away  with  him  a  glowing  sense  of  its  charm.  The 
glow  still  remained  when  he  dined  at  her  house  a 
few  days  afterward.  It  was  one  of  those  quiet  lit 
tle  dinners  of  general  conversation  with  congenial 
people  that  survive  in  memory  the  pomp  of  a  formal 
banquet.  Luxmore  sat  between  Miss  Belknap  and 
Mrs.  Shirley  Allerton.  He  was  in  high  spirits  and 
talked  freely  and  well ;  so  well  that  Allerton  moved 
round  to  him  after  dinner,  and  told  him  tales  of 
his  youth,  informing  his  wife,  on  the  way  home, 
that  Luxmore  was  a  fine  fellow  whom  she  must 
corral  often  when  they  went  to  town. 

"  It  is  some  one  else  who  will  corral  him,  as  you 
call  it,  Shirley." 

"  To  whom  do  you  refer  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  see  ?     Sylvia,  of  course." 

"  Oh  !  "  replied  her  husband,  in  blank  amazement. 
"  You  are  very  far-sighted,  my  dear." 

"  Not  at  all.  How  can  you  talk  so  ?  I  have 
decided  that  it  would  be  a  most  excellent  thing. 
In  fact,  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  it." 

"  Then  it  will  be,  my  dear,  without  the  slightest 
question." 

But  many  moons  waxed  and  waned,  and  still 
it  was  not.  More  than  that,  Luxmore,  sitting 
up  one  autumn  night  over  his  fire,  took  strange 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  65 

counsel  with  himself,  and  decided  that  it  could 
never  be.  He  had  been  thinking  far  too  much, 
lately,  of  Miss  Belknap,  —  or  of  her  fortune,  which 
was  it  ?  Overwhelmed  by  a  new  impalpable  force 
beyond  his  comprehension  he  strove  against  it, 
now  refusing  to  admit  it  at  all,  now  ascribing 
it  to  an  unworthy  motive,  and  struggling  merely 
to  conquer  that,  as  he  believed.  What !  Marry  to 
forfeit  his  independence  ?  Clinging  to  a  woman's 
skirts,  to  decline  upon  inglorious  ease  ?  Impossi 
ble  !  No  man  could  do  that  and  respect  himself ; 
better  an  empty  purse  than  a  full  one  in  the 
wrong  hand.  Men  were  born  to  lead,  not  to 
follow.  And  yet,  if  he  were  doing  himself  grave 
injustice  ;  if  this  nameless  longing  were  of  a  kind 
to  hold  through  all  changes  of  material,  outward 
circumstance,  —  if  she  were  penniless,  for  instance, 
would  he  not  still  long  for  her  ?  Ah,  how  could 
he  be  sure  of  that  ?  She  had  always  worn  the 
golden  cestus.  Who  could  say  that  it  contrib 
uted  nothing  to  her  mysterious,  indefinable  charm  ? 
The  merest  shadow  of  a  doubt  deprived  him  of 
the  right  to  speak.  And  doubt,  he  argued,  was 
inseparable  from  these  conditions.  Long  he  con 
sidered  them  ;  so  long,  that  the  fire  died  away 
unheeded,  and  through  his  high  window  came  the 
first  glimmer  of  the  dawn.  He  roused  himself, 
shivering,  to  shut  it  out,  and  sleep.  The  silent 
debate  was  over ;  its  question  was  answered  in 
the  negative. 

5 


66  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

Resolutely,  then,  he  set  his  face  against  tempta 
tion.  He  could  not  avoid  Miss  Belknap  altogether, 
of  course  ;  but  he  no  longer  made  an  effort  to 
meet  her.  When  they  were  thrown  together  his 
talk  was  of  the  lightest  and  marked  by  an  odd 
nervousness  of  manner.  Pie  was  continually  con 
triving  that  they  should  not  be  left  alone.  Thus 
it  happened  that,  for  one  reason  or  another,  she 
was  always  in  his  thoughts,  and  the  chosen  pur 
suit  which  should  have  absorbed  them  found  but 
a  secondary  place.  His  winter  was  restless  and 
unprofitable.  He  attempted  no  important  work, 
but  under  a  growing  discouragement,  yielded  to 
the  fancied  claims  of  society,  kept  its  late  hours, 
and  paid  the  penalty,  —  by  day,  tilting  at  his  own 
poor  windmills  with  a  tired  hand.  Nevertheless 
the  studies  he  turned  out  sold  readily.  Chance 
and  his  tact  in  dealing  with  it  had  made  him 
the  favorite  of  the  hour ;  for  the  hour,  it  was 
the  thing  to  encourage  him. 

With  charming  inconsistency  his  friend  Mrs. 
Shirley  Allerton  alternately  reproached  him  for 
wasting  his  time,  and  by  her  own  tempting  invi 
tations  made  sad  inroads  upon  it.  When  he 
laughingly  called  her  attention  to  this  fact,  she 
had  her  answer  ready.  No  man,  in  her  judgment, 
should  be  permitted  to  immure  himself.  Until 
he  was  married  and  settled,  which  change  for 
the  better,  according  to  her  emphatic  parenthesis, 
should  always  occur  on  the  hither  side  of  forty, 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  67 

he  must  see  people  ;  not  all  people,  of-  course, 
not  the  dull  and  conventional,  but  the  wise  and 
clever,  —  in  short,  the  right  ones.  Then,  to  point 
her  moral,  she  asked  him  to  dinner,  and  made 
him  take  Miss  Belknap  in.  But  some  one  had 
failed  her  at  the  last  moment.  The  place  on 
his  left  hand  was  vacant.  For  that  reason,  no 
doubt,  Sylvia  took  pains  to  be  doubly  captivating. 
She  began  with  a  flattering  complaint.  In  long 
weeks  she  had  seen  nothing  of  him ;  she  could 
hardly  remember  when  they  had  talked  together 
as  they  were  talking  now.  This  argued,  evidently, 
that  he  was  hard  at  work.  Indeed  she  had  been 
shown  the  results,  and  she  could  well  understand 
that  art  should  be  his  first  thought ;  but  it  need 
not  be  his  only  one ;  he  must  think  sometimes 
of  —  his  friends. 

He  had  thought  of  them  too  often,  as  he  was  on 
the  point  of  saying.  But  he  checked  himself  and 
turned  the  conversation  off  into  impersonalities. 
She  followed  where  he  led  her,  listening  with  an 
attentive  smile,  making  her  own  points  cleverly 
but  deferentially.  How  well  their  tastes  agreed ! 
How  plainly  she  expressed  her  hope  in  his  success 
without  the  aid  of  one  insipid  compliment ;  her 
pleasure  in  his  companionship  without  an  atom's 
loss  of  maidenly  reserve !  What  warmth  of  sym 
pathy  was  hers,  what  delicacy  of  feeling !  Refine 
ment  was  in  all  her  looks  and  gestures ;  her  voice 
had  nothing  of  the  world's  harshness, —  every  note 


68  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

of  it  was  an  appeal.  The  hours  of  that  night  fled 
like  minutes  ;  but  they  left  behind  them  an  eternity 
of  recollection. 

"  A  fine  stroke  of  yours,  that  vacant  place  ! " 
said  Mr.  Allerton  to  his  wife,  when  their  guests 
were  gone. 

"  Now,  Shirley,  please,  for  once,  do  me  justice." 

"  How  am  I  unjust  ?  In  giving  you  credit  for 
benevolent  diplomacy  ?  " 

"  Match-making  is  n't  that.  It 's  unwarrantable 
interference,  more  likely  to  do  harm  than  good. 
I  detest  it  thoroughly,  as  you  ought  to  know.  You 
can't  push  people  into  marriage  and  expect  them 
to  be  happy.  Miss  Burleigh  really  gave  out  at  the 
last  moment.  I  could  n't  have  filled  her  place  if 
I  had  tried." 

"  My  dear,  I  apologize.  But  with  nobody  on  his 
left,  and  somebody  on  his  right  —  " 

"  Well,  why  should  n't  he  take  her  in  ? " 

"  He  could  n't  help  himself ;  and  any  event  that 
may  occur  will  be  purely  fortuitous.  There  is  a 
special  providence  that  waits  on  lovers." 

"  Lovers  ! "  repeated  his  wife,  laughing  and  then 
sighing.  "  Nothing  will  occur  ;  I  am  out  of  pa 
tience.  But  I  shall  never  interfere,"  she  concluded 
with  determination. 

For  a  long  time  Mrs.  Allerton's  rash  prediction 
was  borne  out  by  the  fact,  and  nothing  did  occur 
in  this  important  matter,  which,  as  she  had  before 
confessed,  was  very  near  her  heart.  All  the  fol- 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  69 

lowing  summer  and  well  into  the  autumn,  Lux- 
more  still  strove  to  do  what  he  conceived  to  be  his 
duty  ;  namely,  to  forget  the  woman  whose  accident 
of  wealth  weighed  upon  him,  warping  his  better 
judgment,  making  his  love  an  oppressive  and  tor 
menting  burden.  Then  came  the  inevitable  mo 
ment  when  he  ceased  to  struggle,  and  like  a  tired 
swimmer,  let  the  current  have  its  way.  It  swept 
him  on  fiercely.  And  now,  in  the  world,  he  was 
always  at  her  side,  completing  the  tedious  round 
of  so-called  pleasures  for  her  sake,  lightly.  Out 
of  her  sight,  he  carried  her  image  with  him ;  but 
he  was  no  longer  unhappy,  for  he  no  longer  argued 
with  himself.  If  the  old  problem  crept  into  his 
mind,  he  dismissed  it  with  a  word.  "  Time  must 
settle  it,"  he  now  decided.  And  when  a  man  says 
that  in  such  a  case,  he  uses  time  in  a  special  sense, 
and  its  true  meaning  is  opportunity. 

For  her  part,  Sylvia  met  his  advances  kindly. 
More  than  that,  her  face  brightened  when  he  ap 
proached  ;  when  he  rose  to  go,  she  entreated  him 
to  stay.  The  world  began  to  interpret  these  signs 
in  its  own  reckless  fashion,  and  to  leave  them  more 
and  more  to  themselves.  One  night  they  had  been 
alone  for  hours  in  a  crowded  drawing-room  ;  as  the 
guests  took  leave  they  fell  into  line  together ;  then 
he  led  her  down,  ordered  her  carriage,  and  went 
back  for  her  to  the  cloak-room  door.  As  she  came 
out,  drawing  her  furs  about  her,  some  roses  fell 
from  her  dress.  Luxmore  caught  them. 


70  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  asked.  "  My  fan,  my  hand 
kerchief  ?  No  ;  here  they  are." 

"  Only  these,"  said  Luxmore ;  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  take  the  flowers,  but  he  shook  his  head. 
"Let  me  keep  them." 

"  Bring  me  them  to-morrow,"  she  answered, 
smiling,  but  not  looking  at  him.  Silently  he  of 
fered  her  his  arm,  and  saw,  over  her  shoulder,  that 
this  little  scene  had  not  passed  unobserved.  Two 
vigilant  matrons,  in  the  room  behind,  were  dis 
cussing  him  already ;  he  knew  it  by  the  mischiev 
ous  twinkle  of  their  eyes.  He  could  see,  if  not  hear, 
his  name  upon  their  lips ;  they  had  been  on  the 
alert  for  this.  What !  the  secret  that  he  hardly 
knew  himself  was,  then,  an  open  one.  Had  he  be 
trayed  it  by  signs  the  dullest  gossip  of  them  all 
could  read  ?  Curses  on  their  scandalous  tongues ! 
He  was  town-talk  unquestionably. 

"  She  knows  it,  then ! "  he  muttered  to  himself, 
as  he  went  out  with  Sylvia  to  the  carriage.  He 
bade  her  good-night  mechanically. 

"  Good-night !  "  she  answered,  leaning  forward 
to  give  him  her  hand.  "  I  shall  be  at  home  to 
morrow." 

Simplest  of  words !  Yet  they  made  his  heart 
leap  for  joy.  Spoken  at  that  moment  they  were 
full  of  significance  to  him.  If  the  town  talked  of 
his  love  for  her,  she  must  not  only  know  it,  but  have 
known  it  long.  She  must  have  read  his  thoughts, 
have  followed,  step  by  step,  his  mental  struggle, 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  71 

appreciating  his  long  forbearance,  respecting  its 
motive,  tolerating,  approving  him.  And  now,  that, 
yielding  to  the  poet's  word,  he  had  obeyed  his 
heart,  and  given  all  to  love,  she  approved  him  still. 
For  days  he  had  been  her  shadow,  and  she  begged 
for  him  to-morrow.  So,  with  scarce  a  word,  she 
had  done  all  a  woman  could  do  to  make  him  speak. 
Yes,  it  had  come  to  that.  Not  to  tell  her  would 
be  to  wrong  her.  He  must  speak  now,  if  only  to 
silence  the  idle  tongues  that  were  busy  with  her 
name. 

Love  is  a  cruel  but  an  impartial  despot;  there 
are  no  distinctions  of  rank  among  his  subjects ;  all 
are  slaves  ;  he  laughs  at  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles ; 
and  men  have  no  age  when  he  first  bids  them  hope.. 
The  rapture  of  that  moment  is  like  the  joy  of  an 
ticipation,  overmastering  children,  —  feverish,  irra 
tional,  so  keen  as  to  be  but  one  remove  from  pain. 
It  filled  Luxmorc's  heart  now,  as  the  fragrance  of 
her  roses  filled  his  dreary  lodgings.  He  was  living 
out  a  short  Arabian  night.  He  had  made,  in  very 
truth,  "  the  receipt  of  reason  a  limbec  only."  Its 
fumes  intoxicated  him ;  through  their  rosy  clouds 
a  sweet,  ideal  form  drew  nearer.  How  should  he 
know  that  these  radiant  colors  were  the  colors  of 
his  fancy,  that  he  had  painted  with  them  a  being 
too  lovely  for  the  earth  ?  How  should  he  dream 
that  he  was  dreaming? 

The  roses  he  carried  her  were  sweeter  than  hers, 
she  said.  She  held  them  while  she  talked,  bending 


72  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

over  them  lovingly.  His  opportunity  had  come. 
His  senses  had  grown  strangely  acute,  so  that 
every  small  detail  of  time  and  place  impressed  it 
self  upon  them.  The  clear,  still,  winter  afternoon 
was  slowly  darkening ;  there  had  been  a  fresh  fall 
of  snow,  and  from  the  street  came  up  a  continuous 
sound  of  sleigh-bells.  He  knew  the  room  by  heart ; 
half  the  things  in  it  were  precious  heirlooms.  She 
sat  between  the  firelight  and  the  daylight,  under  a 
splendid  picture  that  shone  down  upon  her  from  the 
wall,  —  the  portrait  of  an  ancestor,  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  life,  handsome  and  stately,  with  a  faint 
smile  on  his  shaven  lips.  In  spite  of  that  the  face 
was  not  agreeable  ;  its  fixed  look  had  an  air  of 
mockery  not  at  all  like  hers.  Yet  so  far  as  the 
features  went,  Sylvia  bore  a  strong  resemblance 
to  this  masterpiece  which  Luxmore  had  often 
admired. 

He  saw  the  likeness  now,  and  it  made  him  falter. 
The  old  obstacle  too  loomed  up  once  more.  She 
was  so  rich.  What  had  he  to  offer  her  ?  He  could 
not  hear  his  own  words,  as  he  blundered  into  a 
tale,  invented  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  A  friend 
had  written  to  him  for  advice.  The  man  loved, 
it  appeared ;  that  his  love  was  returned,  he  had 
grounds  for  belief,  —  insufficient  ones,  perhaps  ;  he 
feared  that  sometimes ;  sometimes,  for  other  rea 
sons,  he  doubted  his  right  to  love  her.  Meanwhile 
the  world  made  sport  of  them.  There  was,  unhap 
pily,  no  doubt  of  that.  What  advice  should  be 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  73 

given  such  a  man  ?  Should  he  be  urged  to  speak 
prematurely,  and  run  the  risk  of  losing  her ;  or  to 
hold  his  peace,  enduring  the  trying  situation  as 
best  he  might,  forcing  her  at  length  to  end  it,  in 
one  way  or  the  other,  by  some  further  sign  ? 

His  voice  trembled  ;  his  speech  was  hurried,  al 
most  incoherent.  The  girl's  cheeks  grew  pale  un 
der  it.  Two  burning  spots  of  color  came  and  went 
in  them.  She  understood,  of  course  ;  the  trick  was 
most  transparent ;  he  could  not  prolong  it.  He 
stopped  short,  waiting  for  her  answer. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Miss  Belknap  only 
lifted  the  roses  to  her  face,  and  let  them  fall  again. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  is  your  opinion  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  he  should  speak,"  she  answered  in 
a  low  voice  ;  "  and  let  it  be  decided." 

"  Then  he  will  speak,"  said  Luxmore,  firmly. 
"  The  case  was  mine.  I  love  you." 

"  You  ?  You  —  love  me  ? "  she  asked  in  a  tone 
of  great  surprise. 

"  Yes ;  as  you  have  seen  —  as  all  the  world 
knows  —  I  have  loved  you  for  months." 

"  For  months  ?  Then  why  have  you  never 
spoken  ?  " 

"  Why  ? "  he  repeated.  What  did  she  mean  by 
that  ?  Surely  she  must  have  known. 

"  Because  —  I  could  not,"  he  continued.  "  And 
yet  you  understood.  Your  face  just  now  confirmed 
it.  You  read  between  my  words.  You  did  not 
need  to  be  told  that  they  referred  to  me." 


74  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  That  is  a  mistake,"  she  replied  slowly.  "  Un 
til  the  last  moment  I  did  not  understand  you." 

Luxmore  had  risen  and  was  staring  at  her  now 
in  speechless  wonder.  Her  eyes  met  his,  then 
looked  another  way.  He  did  not  believe  her ;  she 
understood  that  perfectly. 

"  I  was  all  wrong,"  she  explained.  "  I  thought 
that  it  could  go  on  always  ;  that  we  could  always 
be  good  friends." 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  he  demanded  huskily.  "  You  do 
not  love  me  ;  you  cannot  love  me  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  have  a  great  regard  for 
you,  —  no  more  than  that." 

The  words  made  him  shiver.  He  remembered 
her  use  of  them  at  their  first  meeting,  and  his  own 
thought  about  them  afterward. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  told  a  woman 
that  I  loved  her,"  he  returned  quietly,  "  and  it  will 
be  the  last.  I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"  Do  not  make  me  unhappy,  Mr.  Luxmore,"  she 
said,  rising  to  detain  him,  and  now,  at  last,  laying 
down  his  roses.  "  Let  me  believe  that  we  may 
meet  later  with  no  ill-will,  —  even  as  friends." 

"  And  talk  of  what  ?  The  weather  ?  We  shall 
never  meet,  I  hope." 

"  Don't  say  so." 

"  I  must  say  so.  Unless  —  unless  —  Once 
more  !  You  cannot  love  me  ? " 

"  No  !     lam  much  to  blame  —  " 

"  I  have  not  blamed  you." 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  75 

"  I  blame  myself.  I  ought  to  have  known  better. 
I  did  this  once  before." 

Luxmore  recoiled  with  an  angry  gesture. 
"  Ah !  "  he  whispered  fiercely,  "  Selden  ! " 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  Not  he  ;  you  have  said  it." 

She  met  his  look  calmly  now,  standing  before 
him  with  hands  gently  clasped.  The  day's  last 
gleam  of  sunshine  fell  upon  her,  lighting  up  her 
golden  hair.  How  fine  and  soft  it  was  !  Her  face 
expressed  mingled  amazement  and  vexation  at  his 
taking  this  annoying  circumstance  so  seriously. 
There  was  mild  compassion  in  it  too,  —  merely 
that,  no  more.  Her  self-possession  maddened  him. 
Her  eyes  were  tearless,  hard  and  clear  as  the  eyes 
of  a  Dresden  shepherdess  ;  into  his  own  there  came 
a  mist  through  which  he  saw  her  less  and  less  dis 
tinctly  ;  but,  above  her  head,  he  co~uld  still  see  the 
ancestral  portrait  with  its  mocking  smile. 

"  You  will  hate  me  all  your  life  for  this,"  she 
said  and  sighed. 

His  brows  contracted  with  a  look  of  pain  that 
even  she  remembered  long. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I  wish  that  I  could  hate 
you." 

Then  he  left  her. 


70  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STOPIES. 


III. 


IT  was  in  the  following  autumn  that  Luxmore's 
"Circe  and  Ulysses/'  —  his  first  great  picture, — 
made  him  suddenly  famous.  Long  before  the  sum 
mer  there  came  rumors  that  he  was  bent,  at  last, 
upon  that  higher  flight  from  which  his  self-distrust 
had  hitherto  deterred  him.  The  world  saw  less  of 
him  than  of  old.  And  though  he  looked  pale  and 
worn,  his  air  of  hopeful  determination  showed  that 
he  was  dealing  with  a  problem  which  hard  work 
would  solve.  Mordaunt  and  one  or  two  other 
friends  saw  the  work  in  progress  and  promised 
great  things.  Great  things,  therefore,  were  ex 
pected.  And  the  result,  given  to  the  public,  sur 
passed  expectation. 

He  had  chosen  the  moment  of  the  king's  first 
meeting  with  the  enchantress,  when,  armed  with 
the  sprig  of  moly,  he  draws  his  sword  defiantly, 
declining  to  become  a  brute  at  her  command.  The 
figures,  of  life-size,  were  superbly  modelled  ;  the 
composition  was  original  and  fine,  the  color  fully 
worthy  of  it.  His  triumph  proved  in  every  way 
complete.  An  English  amateur  pounced  upon  the 
picture,  paying  without  a  murmur  the  sum  he  de 
manded  for  it,  carrying  it  off  to  London.  Hard 
upon  this  followed  an  order  for  a  pendant  at  his 
own  price.  His  long  apprenticeship  had  not  been 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.          77 

served  in  vain.  His  reputation  rose  at  last ;  he 
had  but  to  sustain  the  bubble,  now  soaring  into 
sight  of  all  the  world. 

From  misfortune,  fortune.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  to  what,  in  technical  phrase,  may  be 
termed  heart-failure  Luxmore's  first  success  was 
due.  In  that  memorable  winter  twilight  he  had 
broken  down  utterly  at  the  sight  of  Sylvia's  roses 
still  surviving  the  desolation  of  his  home.  Home  ! 
He  had  hoped  for  one,  and  the  echo  of  that  hope, 
resounding  in  the  lonely  place,  brought  him  hours 
of  anguish,  —  days  and  nights  of  it,  scoring  them 
selves  like  years.  For  age  is  measured  more  by 
lost  illusions  than  by  actual  flight  of  time.  One  or 
two  intimate  friends  saw  the  change  in  him  and 
remarked  upon  it ;  but  they  invited  no  confidences, 
and  he  made  none.  He  met  the  world's  glance 
without  flinching,  walked  erect  with  a  firm  step, 
hugging  to  himself  his  "gnarling  sorrow"  as  brave 
ly  as  the  Spartan.  Mordaunt  alone  suspected  the 
truth  ;  but  even  to  him  it  remained  always  a  mere 
suspicion.  He  became,  none  the  less,  a  model  of 
discreet  and  devoted  friendship.  Various  were  the 
devices  he  employed  to  change  the  current  of  his 
comrade's  thoughts,  to  shorten  his  hours  of  soli 
tude.  He  would  break  in  upon  them  with  some 
new  joke  or  some  new  project,  carry  Luxmore  off  by 
force  to  dine  at  his  table,  cheer  him  there  in  a  hun 
dred  ways.  But  even  this  kindness  had  the  power 
to  wound.  At  times  Luxmore  found  the  happiness 


78  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

of  the  house  almost  unendurable ;  the  children's 
laughter  wrung  his  heart.  Then  Mordaunt,  seeing 
this,  but  failing  to  comprehend  it,  would  ascribe  it 
to  some  other  cause,  and  mutter,  "  What  have  I 
said  or  done  to  hurt  him  ? " 

The  stupor  slowly  wore  itself  away,  to  be  suc 
ceeded  by  a  fierce  reaction.  An  hour  came  when 
Luxmore  woke  and  said :  "  She  has  ruined  one 
man ;  she  shall  be  the  making  of  another.  I  can 
not  hate  her.  I  will  forget  her.  I  am  not  like 
Selden."  He  plunged  into  work,  wearily  enough 
at  first.  Day  by  day,  however,  gaining  strength 
from  this  healthful  stimulus,  he  applied  himself 
more  closely,  grew  more  and  more  at  one  with  his 
difficult  task,  found  to  his  delight  that  something 
better  than  his  old  self  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  This  it  was  to  live  ;  no  earthly  joy  that  he 
had  ever  known  was  comparable  to  it.  Leaving 
noble  work  behind  them,  men  were  more  than  men. 
And  if  not  the  fulfilment,  the  endeavor ;  to  that 
end  men  were  endowed  with  souls,  —  "  to  strive,  to 
seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield." 

The  last  fumes  of  the  alembic  had  cleared  away. 
He  knew  now  that  they  had  lent  their  colors  to  an 
air-drawn  shape,  a  creature  of  his  own  mind,  totally 
unreal,  perhaps  too  perfect  for  material  existence. 
That  lovely  soul,  divine  in  its  perceptions,  could 
never  consciously  or  unconsciously  have  so  betrayed 
two  men  ;  for  her  there  would  have  been  no  second 
victim  to  dismiss  with  an  allusion  to  the  first.  She 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  79 

would  have  been  unselfish  and  considerate,  quick 
to  interpret  a  silence  that  every  look  and  every  act 
of  his  had  contradicted,  eager  to  avert  the  merest 
possibility  of  danger.  With  all  the  weakness  of 
her  sex  she  would  have  proved  herself  the  strong 
est  and  noblest  of  women,  —  an  angel  with  a  human 
heart,  not  a  cold  abstraction.  How  well  he  re 
membered  Mordaunt's  warning,  when  he  had  fa 
tally  disregarded  it.  She  had  only  to  reveal  herself, 
to  bring  home  to  him  the  cleverness  of  that 
description. 

And  yet  he  could  not  hate  her.  When  they  met, 
as  sometimes  they  were  forced  to  meet,  passing 
each  other  with  a  smile  of  studied  cordiality,  his 
feeling  was  still  one  of  tenderness  toward  this 
woman  whose  outward  self  had  dazzled  him,  whose 
inner  self  he  had  misconceived.  His  embodiment 
of  all  gentleness  had  never  been ;  by  her  own 
showing  that  was  clearly  proved.  Yet  she  came 
very  near  to  it ;  and  in  her  presence  something  of 
the  old  glamour  returned  for  a  moment  to  bewilder 
him  again.  Only  for  a  moment,  —  in  the  next  he 
could  laugh  as  men  do  at  the  wild  hopes  of  boy 
hood,  knowing  them  to  be  follies,  glad  to  have 
outgrown  them.  He  had  other  aims  now,  higher 
ones,  —  far  better  worth  attaining,  more  glorious 
in  their  rewards.  Had  she  loved  him  he  must  one 
day  have  found  her  out.  Then  the  charm  would 
have  been  more  rudely  broken,  the  gossamer  thread 
would  have  turned  into  a  chain.  Her  coldness  had 


80  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

saved  him,  had  made  a  man  of  him.  From  the 
flint  had  come  the  spark  of  fire.  All  was  better  as 
it  was. 

He  often  wondered  what  he  should  say  to  her, 
if  by  some  mischance  they  were  brought  into 
close  companionship  under  too  curious  eyes.  The 
weather,  past,  present,  and  to  come,  would  soon 
exhaust  itself.  The  numerals  were  left.  He  would 
count,  con  espressione,  from  one  to  a  hundred,  like 
the  tired  diner-out  of  the  tale,  and  request  her  to 
do  the  same.  The  dreadful  infliction  must  be 
avoided,  if  possible  ;  fortunately  it  was  unlikely 
to  occur.  He  saw  so  little  of  the  world's  people 
now.  Even  Mrs.  Shirley  Allerton  had  ceased  to 
tax  him  with  neglect.  The  painter  of  the  "  Circe  " 
had  justified  himself;  he  was  a  privileged  person 
with  other  weighty  work  on  hand,  free  to  come 
and  go  as  he  liked,  always  sure  of  a  welcome  when 
he  wanted  it.  So,  for  a  long  while,  the  steel  en 
countered  the  flint  only  in  the  open  air  or  in  some 
great  assemblage  where  the  law  of  natural  selec 
tion  prevailed.  The  two  were  no  longer  talked 
about.  Their  little  affair  had  been  a  nine  days' 
wonder  at  best,  and  another  soon  supplanted  it. 
There  is  no  cure  for  gossip  like  starvation. 

The  intercourse  still  remained  one  of  looks  and 
smiles,  when  there  came  an  urgent  letter  from 
Luxmore's  patron  calling  him  to  London.  Impor 
tant  commissions  were  said  to  await  him  ;  others 
in  train  would  surely  follow ;  they  needed  but  his 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.          81 

presence.  He  did  not  think  twice,  and  deciding 
not  only  to  go,  but  to  stay  indefinitely,  began  his 
preparations  forthwith.  The  news  was  duly  chron 
icled,  and  his  friend  Mrs.  Allerton  read  it  with  a 
start  in  her  morning  paper. 

"  Oh,  Shirley,  this  is  too  bad !  Mr.  Luxmore  is 
going  abroad." 

"  I  heard  it  last  night  at  the  club.  I  meant  to 
tell  you." 

"  And  he  never,  —  at  least  I  suppose  he  never,  — 
I  really  must  interfere  now." 

"  What  on  earth  arc  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  Don't  be  obtuse.     Miss  Belknap  —  " 

"  Oh,  that 's  it !  I  thought  you  thought  they  were 
not  on  speaking  terms." 

"  They  must  speak.  I  shall  ask  them  to  dinner, 
and  make  him  take  her  in." 

Mr.  Allerton  laughed.  "  With  another  vacant 
place,  I  suppose.  No,  my  dear ;  I  won't  consent 
to  it." 

«  But  —  " 

"  I  will  not  have  him  badgered.  Let  him  speak 
if  he  chooses;  if  not- 

"  How  can  he,  without  an  opportunity  ?  " 

"  You  may  give  him  that,  if  you  please ;  but 
only  that," 

"How?" 

"  Who  dines  here  to-morrow  ?  The  Mexican 
minister  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


82  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Very  well ;  ask  a  few  of  the  enlightened  to 
come  in  afterward,  Jack  with  them,  and  his  Jill, — 
or  jilt,  which  is  it  ?  But.  mind,  no  compulsion.  Is 
it  agreed  ? " 

"  Agreed ;  yes." 

Accordingly  on  the  following  night,  Luxmore, 
talking  earnestly  with  his  hostess,  looked  up  and 
found  that  he  had  been  led  into  a  corner  where 
Miss  Bclknap  stood  alone.  She  put  out  her  hand 
appealingly.  He  was  forced  to  take  it ;  and  he  had 
no  sooner  done  so  than  Mrs.  Allerton  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic.  The  rooms  were  large,  the  com 
pany  was  small.  For  a  moment  they  stood  silent, 
face  to  face,  almost  as  far  from  the  Mexican  min 
ister  as  he  from  Mexico. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  are  going  away," 
said  the  voice,  once  so  familiar,  now  slightly  trem 
ulous,  as  he  observed  ;  he  listened  closely  to  his 
own,  and  found  no  tremor  in  it. 

"  Ah  !     And  why  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  think  that  an  American  wil 
lingly  gives  up  his  native  land." 

He  smiled  somewhat  scornfully.  "  A  great  phil 
osopher  once  said,  '  Let  no  man  call  himself  an 
Athenian  or  a  Corinthian,  but  a  citizen  of  the 
world.'  You  have  studied  the  philosophers.  Is 
not  that  good  advice  ? " 

"  You  did  not  think  so  once." 

"No.  But  we  grow  wiser  as  we  grow  older. 
I  have  learned  my  lesson  in  philosophy." 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  83 

A  faint  color  came  into  her  face.  She  studied 
her  fan  attentively,  opening  and  shutting  it,  strok 
ing  its  feathers  with  the  caressing  gesture  that  he 
remembered. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ? "  she  asked. 

There  was  a  small  sofa  near  them,  under  a  bust 
of  Plato.  Wondering  a  little  at  his  own  in 
difference,  Luxmore  took  his  seat  there  at  her 
side. 

"  I  have  seen  your  picture,"  she  continued.  "  It 
is  very  fine.  I  have  wished  to  add  my  word  to  the 
others." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied.  "  One  does  what  one 
can,  and  is  none  the  worse,  I  hope,  for  recognition." 

"  That  is  a  pleasure  of  which  you  are  depriving 
us.  Art  here  struggles  for  existence  ;  it  needs  the 
help  of  every  skilful  hand,  and  yours  is  turned 
against  it.  Stay ;  it  is  your  duty." 

"  One's  first  duty  is  to  one's  self.  I  go  where  I 
can  work  to  the  best  advantage." 

"  I  see.  Your  work  absorbs  you ;  you  have  no 
other  end  in  life." 

"  None." 

"  And  does  it  make  you  happy  ? " 

"  I  do  not  ask  so  much  of  it.  I  have  lost  a  hope, 
but  I  have  gained  a  virtue,  —  the  virtue  of  content 
ment.  In  this  life  we  are  all  servants  and  not 
masters ;  the  rewards  come  after.  I  serve  to  win 
them.  I  live  only  for  a  few  letters  in  high  relief 
upon  a  tombstone,  —  for  a  statue,  perhaps  ;  for 


84  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

fame,  immortality,  who  knows  ?  for  happiness 
elsewhere." 

He  looked  not  at  her,  but  straight  before  him, 
through  the  half-empty  rooms,  toward  the  Mexican 
minister  who  had  just  risen  to  take  leave.  A  star 
glittered  upon  his  breast.  The  light  of  it  flashed 
in  Luxmore's  eyes. 

At  a  slight  sound  beside  him  he  turned  his  head. 
One  of  the  slender  sticks  of  her  fan  had  broken  in 
Miss  Belknap's  hands.  "  It  is  nothing,"  she  said, 
rising.  "  As  you  were  saying,  you  have  grown 
older,  if  not  wiser.  All  your  ideas  are  completely 
changed." 

He  rose  too.  "No,"  he  said.  "My  ideal, — 
that  is  all." 

"  And  nothing  can  change  that  ? " 

"  Nothing  in  this  world." 

She  held  out  her  hand  once  more.  "  Since  you 
will  go,  then,  I  wish  you  all  possible  success." 

"  It  is  to  you  that  1  shall  owe  it,"  he  replied, 
looking  at  her  now,  as  their  hands  clasped.  He 
could  hardly  believe  his  own  eyes,  for  hers  were 
full  of  tears. 

"  They  are  going,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  take  you 
to  our  hostess  ? " 

"  No.    I  shall  stay  a  little  longer.    Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  —  until  we  meet  again  !  " 

On  his  way  home  he  reviewed  their  talk  lightly, 
laughing  to  himself.  "  And  yet,"  he  thought,  "  she 
would  have  flung  me  over.  I  would  not  have 


OUT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   GRANITE.  85 

trusted  her  even  then."  That  was  his  conclusion. 
To  his  last  hour  he  will  never  doubt  it. 

"  Until  we  meet  again  ! "  We  toss  a  ball  into 
the  air  for  chance  to  catch,  to  return  or  not,  at 
pleasure.  In  this  case  it  was  returned,  but  only 
after  twenty  years,  throughout  which  Luxmore  re 
mained  true  to  his  ideal,  winning  honors,  orders, 
stars  as  brilliant  as  the  Mexican's.  The  better  to 
enjoy  them  he  went  through  the  form  of  deniza- 
tion,  and  became  a  British  subject.  He  grew  gray 
and  rich  and  stout  and  comfortable,  —  but  alone. 
He  never  married. 

One  night,  at  a  private  view,  his  name  was  on 
everybody's  lips.  His  picture  had  been  pronounced 
by  acclamation  the  picture  of  the  year.  The  gal 
leries  were  thronged.  Luxmore  had  offered  his 
arm  to  a  stately  dowager,  and  as  they  made  their 
way  about  she  caught  the  whisper  of  his  name,  and 
wondered  that  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  it. 

"  How  I  envy  you,"  she  said. 

He  laughed.     "  Envy  me  ?     Why  ? " 

"  You  are  Luxmore.  That 's  all.  Who  is  the 
old,  young  person  coming  this  way  ?  Do  I  know 
her?" 

The  figure  passed  on  in  the  crowd  and  was  gone  ; 
but  not  before  Luxmore  recognized  the  face  and 
returned  its  cordial  greeting  with  a  smile. 

"  No  ;  she  looked  at  you,"  his  companion  rattled 
on.  "  The  eyes  are  fine ;  but  she  makes  me  think 
of  a  faded  leaf.  Who  is  she,  pray  ? " 


86  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  An  American,"  said  Luxmore.  "  I  knew  her 
once,  slightly.  I  am  not  sure  about  the  name." 

Later  on  he  informed  himself  that  she  was 
called  Miss  Belknap.  She  too  had  never  mar 
ried.  But  she  had  left  the  gallery.  They  did  not 
meet  again. 

That  same  night  an  acquaintance  stopped  him 
in  the  club,  to  speak  of  a  brother  painter  who  had 
lately  died. 

"  I  have  just  heard  the  news.  Onslow  is  to  have 
a  niche  in  the  crypt  of  St.  Paul's.  Jolly  good  thing, 
is  n't  it  ?  I  wonder  if  he  knows." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Luxmore.  "  Was  that  the 
best  they  could  do  ? " 

The  man  stared  and  went  away.  Luxmore,  left 
to  himself,  sighed  heavily. 

"  The  crypt  of  St.  Paul's !  I  wish  it  were  I  in 
stead  of  Onslow."  Then  his  thought  took  another 
turn.  "  After  all,  I  am  Luxmore,"  he  said  with  a 
smile.  And  wheeling  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to 
the  fire,  he  took  a  cat-nap  before  turning  in. 


" CORDON  I " 

"  T  T  is  a  bargain,  Monsieur,  —  a  bargain  !     The 

J-  rent  is  a  mere  nothing ;  puisqu'il  y  a  du 
confort  ici,"  said  the  old  concierge,  as  he  threw 
open  one  of  the  shutters,  and  flooded  the  room 
with  dusty  sunshine. 

The  apartment  was  au  premier,  at  the  back 
of  a  small  court  numbered  59  of  the  Rue  Neuve 
St.  Augustin.  No.  59,  —  I  give  it  fearlessly,  since 
even  its  foundation-stones  have  long  been  Hauss- 
mannized  away. 

The  court  was  flooded  with  sunshine  that  was 
not  dusty,  and  a  great  plane-tree  grew  in  one 
corner,  close  against  an  ivy-covered  wall.  The 
yellow  placard,  "  A  LOUER,"  hanging  at  the  door, 
had  been  the  bait  luring  me  into  this  mouse-trap, 
as  it  certainly  proved  to  be. 

But  all  that  comes  later  on.  For  the  present 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  the  room  was  comfortably 
furnished  after  the  old  Venetian  manner,  and  hung 
with  Cordova  leather,  old  too,  and  real ;  beyond, 
there  was  a  salon,  with  a  floor  so  highly  polished 
that  I  narrowly  escaped  a  sprained  ankle  in  cross 
ing  it ;  and  a  chamber,  commonplace  enough  but 
for  the  chintz  hangings  with  which  its  walls  and 


88  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

ceiling  were  draped  oppressively  in  wide  plaits 
that  met  overhead  in  a  central  rosette,  somehow 
suggesting  the  interior  decoration  of  a  coffin.  In 
spite  of  this  untimely  thought,  and  of  the  su 
perfluous  antichambre  and  salle-d-manger,  useless 
incumbrances  in  bachelor  quarters,  I  took  the 
apartment  for  a  month,  to  the  evident  delight 
of  old  Casimir,  whose  feather-duster  twitched 
expressively  in  his  palsied  hand. 

The  tremulous  eagerness  of  this  good  gentleman 
made  me  half  suspect  that  he  had  not  the  remotest 
right  to  let  the  rooms  at  all.  But  he  told  a 
well-varnished  tale  of  an  old  proprietor  who  hated 
women,  and  who  passed  his  life  in  search  of  a 
country  so  civilized  as  to  do  without  them.  From 
this  journey  of  desperation  he  returned  now  and 
then  to  restore  his  tired  senses  in  the  coffined 
chamber,  and  to  gather  courage  for  a  new  depart 
ure.  It  was  midsummer  ;  I  might  keep  the  rooms 
until  the  autumn,  —  not  an  hour  longer,  since  the 
patron  would  then  be  likely  to  pounce  down  upon 
his  possessions,  unannounced,  at  any  moment. 
Just  now,  he  was  believed  to  be  in  Lapland. 

When  I  moved  in,  that  very  afternoon,  a  guilty 
feeling  of  intrusion  overcame  me.  The  place  was 
so  luxurious,  so  well  ordered,  so  unlike  the  four 
walls  of  lodging  for  which  one  pays.  In  the 
library  of  the  leather  hangings  the  patron's  books 
were  upon  the  shelves  ;  his  portfolio,  his  paper- 
knife  upon  the  table  ;  the  ink  in  the  miniature 


CORDON!  89 

helmet  of  blue  steel  was  dry,  it  is  true  ;  but  there 
lay  the  well-worn  quill  beside  it.  "  The  room  re 
veals  the  man,"  says  Diderot ;  granting  this,  the 
patron  was  a  man  of  taste  and  well  informed.  I 
took  down  some  of  the  books  ;  here  were  superb 
bindings,  old  and  rare  editions.  Upon  one  fly-leaf 
his  name  was  written,  —  Marius  Morizot,  —  the 
hand  clear  and  fine,  like  a  woman's.  Casimir 
had  said  that  he  was  old.  Bibliophile  and  trav 
eller,  with  the  means  to  follow  his  fantastic  bent, 
this  patron  would  certainly  be  an  agreeable  man 
to  meet  on  his  own  ground  ;  that  is,  if  one  came 
properly  introduced.  All  here  was  as  if  he  had 
left  it  yesterday.  What  if  the  door  were  to  open 
and  admit  him  at  the  next  moment  ? 

Just  then  the  door  did  open,  but  only  Casimir 
came  in,  bringing  firewood ;  for  the  sun  had 
already  left  the  little  court  in  shadow,  and  there 
was  an  unseasonable  chill  in  the  waning  summer 
day.  The  old  man  wore  a  black  skull-cap  over 
his  thin,  gray  hair,  and  a  green  baize  apron  that 
swathed  him  nearly  to  the  ankles.  He  chattered 
about  the  fire  as  he  built  and  lighted  it ;  all 
the  time  holding  under  his  arm  the  eternal  feather- 
duster,  which  seemed  to  be  his  badge  of  office. 
I  had  lately  seen,  at  the  Come'die  Framjaise,  Reg- 
nier's  masterpiece,  the  sly  old  servant  in  "  La  joie 
fait  peur,"  —  the  picture  of  amiable  senility.  Here 
was  the  thing  itself. 

"  The  patron  has  his  treasures,"  I  said,  stroking 


90  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

tenderly  the  crushed  levant  that  enshrined  a  num 
bered  reprint  of  Andre"  Che*nier. 

Casimir  looked  at  the  shelves  with  a  certain 
respect,  and  then  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  but  not  there,"  he  answered. 

Thinking  that  he  referred  to  the  glittering  ob 
jects  of  the  salon,  I  treated  myself  to  a  complacent 
smile,  as  I  quietly  put  up  the  book. 

"  Not  there,"  he  repeated,  shuffling  toward  me 
in  his  loose  slippers,  and  letting  his  voice  die 
away  into  the  important  whisper  that  is  the  em 
phasis  of  a  French  man-of-all-work.  "  Ah,  if 
Monsieur  knew  !  " 

"  Knew  what  ? "  I  asked.  "  Have  we  a  gold 
mine  at  our  feet  ? " 

He  chuckled  and  nodded.  "  Better  than  that, 
Monsieur.  See  !  " 

Then  he  pushed  aside  one  of  the  hangings,  and 
showed  me  that  it  covered  a  door  of  burnished 
steel. 

«  A  safe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  in  the  wall." 

"  And  of  such  size  !  "  I  continued  ;  for  the  door 
way,  though  narrow,  was  higher  than  my  head. 
"  What  can  he  keep  there  ? " 

"  Jewels,  Monsieur,"  said  Casimir,  enjoying  my 
surprise.  "  Jewels  from  the  ends  of  the  earth 
laid  away  in  little  drawers  lined  with  velvet  as 
soft  as  the  down  of  a  bird.  It  is  a  passion  with 
him  ;  the  collection  is  a  property  in '  itself." 


CORDON!  91 

I  laid  my  hand  gently  upon  the  shining  metal ; 
it  might  have  been  the  door  of  a  tomb.  I  drew 
back,  shivering.  The  thought  of  these  untold 
riches,  hardly  out  of  reach,  disturbed  me  ;  I  felt 
in  a  measure  responsible  for  their  safety. 

"  The  door  is  locked,  of  course,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Monsieur  ;  only  the  patron  has  the 
key."  He  brushed  the  door  lightly  with  his 
feather-tips,  as  though  he  were  dealing  with  some 
fragile  work  of  art,  and  then  dropped  the  curtain 
over  it. 

"  Casimir !  You  have  your  master's  leave  to 
let  these  rooms  ;  you  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,  Monsieur  ;  Monsieur  need  give 
himself  no  uneasiness,  it  is  permitted  at  this 
season.  In  the  summer-time  Monsieur  Morizot 
always  absents  himself.  He  has  been  nearly  two 
years  away." 

I  changed  the  subject,  though  I  doubted  him 
instinctively. 

"  What  is  Monsieur  Morizot  like  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  A  lamb,  Monsieur ;  amiable,  as  one  cannot 
be  more  so.  Monsieur,  then,  has  not  remarked 
his  portrait  ?  " 

The  pictures  were  chiefly  modern,  and  were 
none  too  well  lighted  ;  I  had  barely  glanced  at 
them.  Casimir  led  me  to  this  one,  which  hung 
in  a  dark  corner,  so  high  that  the  flame  of  a 
candle  held  up  at  arm's  length  but  just  revealed 
it.  The  face  was  long,  thin,  sharp-featured,  and 


92  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

sallow,  with  the  prevailing  moustache  and-  im 
perial  of  the  time.  But  the  eyes  were  fine  and 
friendly.  On  the  whole,  I  felt  happier  about  Mon 
sieur  Morizot.  He  had  the  gentle,  high-bred  look 
of  that  Van  Dyck  father  in  the  long  gallery  of 
the  Louvre. 

"  And  yet  he  hates  women.  Was  he  never 
married  ? " 

"  Never,  Monsieur  ;  in  youth  he  had  a  disap 
pointment,  they  say,  and  now  it  would  be  some 
what  late  for  him  to  think  again  of  that.  At 
his  age  one  no  longer  makes  such  plans." 

His  hand  shook  more  than  ever,  and  the  melted 
wax  of  the  candle  ran  over,  one  drop  falling  upon 
the  floor.  "  He  is  good,  the  patron,"  he  mur 
mured,  so  tenderly  that  the  drop  might  have  been 
a  tear  from  his  own  failing  eyes. 

When  the  old  retainer  had  left  me,  I  dismissed 
all  scruples,  and  unpacked  my  trunk  in  the  little 
chamber,  singing  to  myself  in  the  happiest  of 
moods.  I  was  in  luck,  evidently.  Even  should 
Monsieur  Morizot  turn  up,  I  felt  sure  that  he 
would  accept  my  explanation,  supposing  one  to 
be  necessary.  But  he  would  not  come.  I  doubted 
Casimir  no  longer. 

I  found  in  the  library  an  arm-chair  covered 
with  stamped  leather  like  that  of  the  walls  ;  the 
arms  supported  by  hard  featured  goddesses,  — 
wood-nymphs,  perhaps,  —  redundant  in  the  matter 
of  bust,  tapering  off  like  terminal  figures  into 


CORDON!  93 

the  chair-legs  below.  Wheeling  this  up  to  the 
table,  I  sat  down  awhile  to  do  nothing  and  de 
vour  my  brain,  as  the  inhuman  proverb  puts  it. 
In  the  gathering  twilight  the  room  was  almost 
dark,  but  I  saw  it  all,  or  nearly  all,  over  the 
mantel  in  a  narrow,  oblong  mirror,  there  reflected 
by  Casirnir's  cheerful  blaze.  The  first  fire  of  the 
season  invites  contemplation,  and  my  thoughts 
wandered  as  fitfully  as  the  mellow  light  that 
played  about  the  tarnished  gilding  of  the  leather. 
When  I  am  alone  I  am  apt  to  grow  inconsequent, 
to  a  degree  that  would  distress  one  who  makes 
a  labor  of  thinking. 

Hunger  is  a  sharp  reminder,  and  before  long 
I  realized  that  I  was  hungry.  So  I  hastily  pulled 
myself  together,  and  shutting  the  door  upon  my 
golden  walls,  strolled  up  the  Boulevard  to  the 
Passage  des  Princes.  I  dined  well  at  Peter's, 
opposite  the  window  of  innumerable  meerschaums, 
and  after  dinner,  went  out  by  the  side  gate  of 
the  Passage  into  the  Rue  Favart.  The  doors  of 
the  Opera  Comique  stood  invitingly  open,  and  I 
was  tempted  to  turn  toward  them,  and  read  the 
bill  of  the  play,  "  L'Ombre,"  of  Flotow  ;  Gounod's 
"  Gallia."  In  the  first,  Madame  Priola.  Lovely 
Madame  Priola,  long  since  forgotten !  Do  you 
live  on,  to  look  into  your  glass  and  sigh  for 
those  dear  old  days  when  all  Paris  adored  you  ? 
Or  have  you  made,  in  truth,  your  final  exit  into 
Pere-la-Chaise  or  Montparnasse,  to  sleep  out  there 


94  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

a  longer  night  than  any  other  you  have  known  ? 
To  one  cruelty  of  life  all  a  man's  experience 
can  never  reconcile  him,  —  that  a  pretty  woman 
may  not  hold  her  own  forever. 

I  went  in,  stayed  the  performance  out,  and  left 
the  theatre  somewhat  dashed  in  spirits  ;  the  echo 
of  Gounod's  solemn  music  seemed  to  follow  me 
like  a  ghostly  footfall  under  the  flaring  lights, 
by  the  painted  kiosk -windows.  The  sky  was  over 
cast  ;  a  drop  or  two  of  rain  fell.  The  great  doors 
of  No.  59  were  closed  and  locked  of  course  ;  at 
that  hour  I  could  have  expected  nothing  else.  But 
Casirnir  slept  soundly  ;  it  was  long  before  I  could 
make  him  hear,  though  I  pulled  the  bell  till  the 
whole  place  resounded.  The  rain  came  on  in 
earnest,  and  I  was  at  the  despairing  point,  when 
the  door  gave  a  welcome  click  and  swung  back 
an  inch  or  two.  I  stumbled  in  through  the  dark 
ness,  passed  the  lodge  where  I  could  hear  Casimir 
swearing  to  himself  drowsily  without  a  thought 
of  challenging  me,  and  guided  myself  by  the  hand 
rail  of  the  staircase  straight  to  my  own  door.  I 
struck  a  match,  found  the  key,  and  went  in. 

The  outer  rooms  were  black  and  unfriendly ; 
through  them  I  saw  a  thread  of  light  from  the 
library  door  to  which  I  groped  my  way.  The 
light  came  from  a  stately  moderateur  lamp  that 
stood  upon  the  table,  and  I  blessed  Casimir  for 
his  forethought ;  but  for  the  lamp,  the  room, 
at  the  first  glance,  seemed  to  be  as  I  had  left 


CORDON!  95 

it.  The  carved  chair  was  drawn  up  before  the 
fire,  which  still  burned  brightly.  That  I  found  a 
fire  and  not  a  heap  of  ashes,  might  have  struck 
me  as  a  curious  circumstance,  but  I  set  this  down 
to  Casimir's  forethought  too  ;  all  the  more  readily 
that  my  clothes  were  wet  and  that  I  needed  it 
to  dry  them,  as  I  proceeded  to  do. 

Standing  thus  before  the  chimney  with  the 
crackling  fagots  at  my  heels,  I  observed  a  book 
upon  the  table.  It  lay  close  to  the  arm  of  the 
great  chair,  —  so  close,  in  fact,  that  one  sitting 
there  could  hardly  fail  to  see  it  even  at  twilight. 
Yet  it  had  escaped  my  notice  until  now.  What 
book  ?  The  moment  my  unspoken  question  was 
answered,  I  felt  absolutely  sure  that  it  had  never 
before  been  in  my  hands.  Its  vellum  covers  were 
worn  and  worm-eaten  ;  its  musty  leaves  were  yel 
low  with  age.  I  read  the  title,  "  The  Trial  of 
Francois  Ravaillac  for  the  Murder  of  King  Henry 
IV.  1610."  I  could  hardly  have  forgotten  that 
book  had  I  taken  it  down. 

Immediately  a  strange  terror  seized  me,  — 
vague,  unreasoning  it  was,  like  a  child's  in  the 
dark.  I  dropped  the  book,  caught  up  a  candle, 
and  peered  into  the  chamber,  then  searched  the 
other  rooms  throughout.  I  saw  no  one,  heard  no 
sound.  I  was  alone ;  yet  this  knowledge  failed 
to  reassure  me.  I  spoke  and  was  startled  at 
my  own  voice.  I  tried  to  sing,  but  the  walls 
gave  back  a  mocking  echo  that  was  unendurable, 


96  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

and  I  returned  to  the  library  with  the  same 
childish  dread  of  nothing  still  oppressing  me  like 
the  remembrance  of  a  nightmare. 

I  can  recall  distinctly  my  struggle  to  conquer 
this  feeling,  and  I  know  that  I  must  have  con 
quered  it ;  for  I  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair,  and 
began  to  read  the  trial  of  Ravaillac,  — 

"  The  prisoner  is  sworn,  and  asked  his  name, 
age,  rank,  and  place  of  abode. 

"  He  said  that  his  name  was  Francois  Ravaillac, 
born  and  dwelling  at  Angouleme,  between  thirty- 
one  and  thirty-two  years  of  age." 

I  can  see  those  lines  now,  in  all  their  quaintness 
of  type,  as  one  makes  a  sun-picture  by  a  sudden 
closing  of  the  eyes.  I  remember  that  I  read  on 
and  on,  till  I  came  to  a  page  so  stained  as  to  be 
indistinct,  part  of  which  had  been  torn  away. 
Then  I  must  have  fallen  into  a  doze,  —  a  mere 
cat-nap  of  a  moment  only.  I  woke  with  a  start, 
unable,  at  first,  to  recognize  the  surroundings. 

The  lamp  had  run  down,  after  the  provoking 
manner  of  French  moderateurs.  I  knew  that  it 
only  needed  winding,  and  leaning  over  the  table,  I 
gave  the  key  a  turn  or  two,  but  I  was  too  late ; 
the  lamp  went  out  in  a  long,  smoky  trail.  Yet 
the  room  was  not  quite  dark  ;  the  fire  burned  on, 
flickering  at  my  feet,  and  making  fantastic  shadows 
in  the  glass. 

In  the  glass !  I  looked  at  it,  and  grew  numb 
with  horror.  For  1  saw  there  the  reflection  of  a 


CORDON!  97 

man's  face,  so  hideous  in  its  expression  that,  even 
in  a  crowd,  one  would  have  turned  from  it  with 
loathing.  I  have  never  been  able  to  describe  it; 
in  that  uncertain  light  it  had  no  color,  I  could 
barely  trace  its  outline.  But  I  should  know  that 
face  if  I  saw  it  at  the  top  of  the  Great  Pyramid,  or  in 
the  plains  of  Arizona,  —  anywhere,  indeed,  —  upon 
the  instant ;  and  I  should  shudder  at  the  sight,  as 
I  do  now  at  the  thought,  like  a  frightened  animal. 

For  a  few  seconds  I  was  helpless.  My  muscles 
refused  to  act ;  I  could  not  even  turn  my  head  to 
look  behind  me.  Thus,  with  all  senses  gone  but 
one,  I  saw  the  face  drawing  nearer  to  my  chair 
and  looking  down  at  it.  The  lines  grew  more 
distinct,  —  a  strange  mark  came  out  upon  the 
cheek  as  if  the  skin  there  had  contracted.  Then, 
with  an  effort  that  seemed  like  a  trial  of  strength 
with  some  force  unseen,  I  caught  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  and  springing  to  my  feet,  wheeled  about 
upon  the  dark,  silent  spaces  of  the  room,  conscious 
only  of  a  sudden  draught  of  cold  air  that  chilled 
me  to  the  bone. 

Darkness,  there  was  nothing  else.  Yet  I  turned 
again  to  the  glass,  finding  only  my  own  figure, 
scarcely  recognizable.  Then  for  the  first  time,  I 
was  aware  that  my  left  hand,  cold  and  damp  like 
a  dead  man's,  still  clasped  the  old  book,  marking 
my  place  between  its  leaves.  I  shivered  and  would 
have  laid  it  down ;  but  instead  of  that,  I  flung  it 
fvom  me  into  the  fire  with  a  shriek  that  set  the 

7 


98  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

room  ringing.  For  the  stain  upon  its  torn  page 
had  deepened  and  freshened,  and  was  oozing  out 
upon  my  fingers,  —  they  were  red  with  it.  Kneel 
ing  at  the  hearth  I  wiped  away  the  drops  with  my 
handkerchief,  and  burned  that  too. 

Still  on  the  hearth  I  crouched  and  listened.  If 
there  were  only  something  human  to  face  and  chal 
lenge  !  Not  a  sound.  But  again  the  current  of 
cold  air,  as  if  from  an  open  door  or  window.  That, 
at  least,  was  real.  I  found  my  candle,  lighted  it 
at  the  fire,  and  searched  the  room  once  more.  To 
my  great  surprise  I  discovered  in  the  darkest  corner 
a  small  door  that  I  had  never  seen,  —  one  of  those 
blind  doors  so  common  in  French  apartments,  cun 
ningly  contrived  to  fit  a  panel  of  the  wall.  It  stood 
ajar,  moreover,  as  though  forced  open  by  some  mis 
chievous  gust  of  the  night-wind  that  had  lost  its 
way  in  the  house  and  then  made  a  frantic  effort  to 
get  out  again.  Rejoiced  to  account  so  easily  for 
one  disturbing  element  at  least,  I  pushed  the  door 
aside,  and  saw  merely  a  narrow,  flagged  corridor, 
leading  to  a  servants'  stairway  communicating  with 
the  floor  below,  —  the  ground-floor,  for  the  house 
had  no  entresol.  By  the  dim  light  I  held,  I  could 
distinguish  three  steps  leading  down  into  awful 
blackness,  like  a  murderous  oubliette  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  I  strained  my  eyes  and  listened.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  be  seen,  but  my  ears  caught 
a  faint  sound,  startling  at  that  hour,  though  by 
day  I  should  have  laughed  at  it,  —  simply  the  noise 


CORDON1  99 

of  running  water  gently  falling,  as  if  from  a  pipe, 
upon  the  pavement  below.  I  went  on  cautiously 
to  the  stair-rail,  leaned  over  it,  and  looked  down. 
No  one ;  but  under  the  stairs  in  the  dark  the 
water  went  splashing  on  intermittently,  as  though 
it  fell  first  upon  invisible  hands,  —  washing  them, 
perhaps.  The  thought  suggested  itself  instantly. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  I  shouted,  lowering  the  light 
toward  the  dark  corner,  but  in  vain. 

The  water  stopped.    There  was  no  other  answer. 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  I  repeated  in  a  voice  that  was 
not  mine. 

I  heard  a  shuffling  step,  and  there  came  a  blast 
of  the  night  air  strong  enough  to  put  out  the  light, 
if  I  had  not  drawn  back,  shielding  the  flame  with 
my  hand.  A  door  below  me  quietly  closed,  and 
all  was  still  again. 

I  rushed  down  the  stairs  and  found  the  door.  It 
was  securely  bolted ;  the  bolts  were  rusted,  —  I 
tried  one,  and  could  not  stir  it. 

Then,  out  in  the  court,  a  harsh  cry  rang  back 
along  the  walls,  "  Cordon  !  "  —  the  familiar  call  to 
the  sleeping  concierge.  "  Cordon  !  "  the  same  rough 
voice  repeated.  The  heavy  street-door  fell  into 
place  with  a  dull,  jarring  sound.  The  presence, 
whatever  it  was,  had  escaped  scot-free  into  the 
world  of  Paris. 

Drip,  drip,  behind  me  I  heard  the  water  falling 
now,  drop  by  drop,  upon  the  stones.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  show  that  I  had  not  been  dreaming. 


100  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

I  gave  one  searching  look  at  the  dismal  little  corner, 
and  then  fled  from  it  and  from  the  house  forever. 
In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  I  had  rushed 
through  the  rooms  overhead  and  down  again  by  the 
main  staircase,  out  into  the  court  and  on  through 
the  falling  rain,  shouting  to  Casimir  as  I  went, 
"  Cordon !  cordon  !  cordon  ! "  I  woke  echoes  there 
that  drove  me  half  mad  ;  I  beat  upon  the  door. 
At  last  the  cord  was  drawn,  and  I  found  myself 
in  the  street,  where  I  recovered  my  senses  suffi 
ciently  to  put  on  my  hat  and  coat,  snatched  up 
in  my  flight,  mechanically,  from  the  table  in  the 
antichambre. 

I  went  back  to  my  hotel,  and  passed  a  night  to 
which  that  uneasy  one  of  Clarence  was  as  nothing. 
In  the  morning,  very  early,  I  hurried  out  again, 
laughing  at  my  folly.  The  day  was  fine  and  bright, 
as  only  Paris  can  be  ;  and  yet  I  trembled  upon 
turning  into  the  court,  where,  however,  I  found 
nothing  more  terrible  than  Casimir,  watering  his 
flowers  and  talking  to  a  gray  cat  that  rubbed  itself 
affectionately  against  his  shins.  The  old  man 
started  when  he  saw  me,  and  looked  from  me  to 
the  window  behind  which  he  supposed  I  had  been 
sleeping. 

"  Monsieur  rises  early,"  said  he. 

"  Yes.  I  am  called  away.  You  will  be  kind 
enough  to  pack  my  trunk  and  send  it  after 
me." 

"  Monsieur  gives  up  the  rooms  ? " 


CORDON!  101 

"  Unavoidably.  It  does  not  matter ;  they  are 
paid  for,  all  the  same." 

Surprise  made  him  speechless  for  a  moment. 
The  cat  came  slowly  toward  me,  purring.  I 
stooped  and  stroked  it  between  the  ears. 

"  He  is  called  Chambord,  Monsieur ;  he  lives 
upon  raw  meat,  but  he  is  very  kind  and  gentle. 
I  regret  that  Monsieur  goes  away." 

"  Thank  you.  Casimir,  what  strange  man  was 
in  the  house  last  night  ? " 

"  Monsieur,  I  do  not  understand.  There  was 
no  one." 

"  You  let  no  one  out,  then  ? " 

"  Oh,  that,  of  course.  The  house  has  many  apart 
ments,  many  lodgers.  I  do  not  count  them  in  my 
sleep." 

"  Nevertheless,"  I  said  with  some  warmth, "  there 
was  a  stranger  in  my  rooms  last  night.  I  saw  him." 

"  Monsieur  was  dreaming.     It  is  impossible." 

"  But  I  can  describe  him  to  you."  And  I  tried 
to  do  so,  making  only  a  stammering  failure  of  it. 

Casimir  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Then  I  remembered  the  curious  mark  upon 
the  man's  cheek,  and  put  in  that  evidence 
triumphantly. 

The  dull  eyes  opened  a  little  wider ;  but  he 
smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Sapristi !  Now  I  know  that  Monsieur  was 
surely  dreaming.  That  is  the  Brazilian,  Cornelio, 
the  good  patron's  valet  de  chambre" 


102  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Well,  then,  I  tell  you  he  has  come  back." 

"  But,  Monsieur  —  " 

"  I  swear  it  to  you." 

"  Impossible.  Monsieur  Morizot  keeps  him  al 
ways  at  his  side.  They  are  both  in  Lapland." 

I  argued  with  him  to  no  purpose.  He  grew 
angry,  and  in  his  excitement,  tipped  over  his 
watering-pot  upon  Chambord,  who  turned  tail  and 
disappeared.  I  could  convince  him  of  nothing 
but  my  own  imbecility ;  and  so  I  left  him,  mutter 
ing  strange  oaths  among  his  flowers. 

One  rarely  fails  to  recall  a  startling  bit  of  his 
own  experience  the  first  time  its  date  comes  round 
again.  So  it  happened  that  this  adventure  was 
uppermost  in  my  mind  one  midsummer  night  of 
the  following  year,  on  board  the  good  steamer 
"  Baron  Osy,"  bound  from  London  to  Antwerp. 
We  had  left  the  White  Tower  just  at  noon,  and 
had  dropped  leisurely  down  the  overburdened 
Thames,  threading  our  cautious  way  through  larger 
and  smaller  ocean  craft,  in  and  out  among  tow- 
boats  and  barges,  and  awkward  little  luggers  with 
red  sails  and  spankers ;  past  ^  the  big  guns  of 
Woolwich,  and  Greenwich  Hospital  with  its  white- 
haired  veterans,  whose  reckoning  leaves  off  where 
ours  begins ;  by  Tilbury  Fort  and  Gravesend, 
where  the  great  river,  broadened  to  an  estuary, 
stretches  out  its  arms  to  greet  the  Medway  and 
the  two  go  wandering  off  here  and  there  in  a 


CORDON!  103 

tangle  of  green  hills  that  know  no  winter  but 
are  always  green.  So  we  had  come  out  into  yel 
lower  and  wilder  water ;  the  sun  had  set  in  a 
bank  of  cool,  gray  clouds  ;  the  white  cliffs  and 
glimmering  lights  of  Margate  were  already  low 
on  the  horizon  ;  and  the  long  twilight  crept  down 
upon  us  slowly,  imperceptibly. 

I  had  seen  but  few  passengers,  all  of  the  heaviest 
and  most  uninteresting  modern  Flemish  pattern  ; 
but  a  chance  remark  of  one  of  the  stewards  led 
me  to  think  that  there  were  others  of  consequence, 
holding  themselves  aloof  in  their  cabins.  One 
by  one,  those  who  were  about  me  on  the  after- 
deck  had  gone  below  as  the  night-breeze  strength 
ened.  I  knew  that  the  stars  were  coming  out, 
that  under  the  pale-green  streak  of  western  sky  the 
English  coast  was  fast  receding ;  but  my  thoughts 
were  hundreds  of  miles  away.  With  them  I  was 
really  strolling  through  the  Passage  des  Princes 
and  back  along  the  Boulevard,  humming  as  I 
walked  the  doctor's  air  in  "  L'Ombre,"  — 

"  Midi,  minuit ! 
Le  jour,  la  nuit  ! 
Midi,  c'est  la  vie, 
Minuit,  la  niort  —  oui  !  " 

And  so  on,  through  all  the  details  of  that  troubled 
night.  I  lived  again  in  Monsieur  Morizot's  apart 
ment  ;  I  saw  his  chair  at  the  fire,  his  book  upon 
the  table  ;  nay,  even  the  old  letter-press  danced 
before  my  eyes,  — 


104  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  The  prisoner  is  sworn,  and  asked  his  name, 
age,  rank,  and  place  of  abode. 

"  He  said  that  his  name  was  Francois  Ravaillac, 
born  and  dwelling  at  Angouleme  —  " 

The  sound  of  my  voice  brought  me  back  to 
the  deck  of  the  "  Baron  Osy."  I  had  spoken  the 
words  aloud.  I  turned  and  saw  that  they  must 
have  been  overheard  by  a  passenger  who  stood 
at  the  rail,  not  ten  feet  away.  He  wore  a  close- 
fitting,  pointed  cap  and  a  long  dark  coat,  buttoned 
tightly  under  his  chin,  and  these  garments  had 
a  suggestive  richness  in  them.  A  splendid  jewel 
too  shone  upon  his  hand.  But  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  me  with  a  look  in  which  fear  and  wonder 
mingled  strangely  ;  his  face  seemed  white  as  death, 
—  and  it  was  the  face  of  the  valet,  Cornelio. 

I  realized  an  unknown  power  in  the  words  which 
I  had  spoken  ;  and  without  moving  from  my  place 
I  finished  the  broken  sentence  from  the  trial  of 
Ravaillac,  then  repeated  it  word  for  word  from 
the  beginning.  With  that,  the  mark  upon  his 
cheek  quivered  convulsively  ;  he  gave  a  wild  cry, 
like  some  brute  brought  to  bay,  and  with  one 
appealing  look,  as  if  toward  imaginary  pursuers 
closing  in  upon  him,  he  flung  himself  over  the 
rail  into  the  sea. 

I  rushed  to  the  ship's  side  as  one  of  the  hands, 
who  had  seen  him  jump,  tore  a  life-preserver  from 
the  guards,  and  threw  it  after  him.  We  caught 
sight  of  an  arm  tossed  up  in  the  foaming  wake 


CORDON!  105 

far  behind ;  a  wave  swept  over  it.  The  engines 
were  stopped,  and  a  boat  was  lowered ;  after 
a  long  time  it  came  back,  bringing  only  the  wet 
corks.  The  old  gray  sexton  of  the  sea  works 
quickly  and  well. 

We  found  his  name  registered  upon  the  list,  — 
Ramon  Quizas,  rentier,  of  Rio.  He  had  no  com 
panion,  and  his  trunks  were  stored  somewhere 
on  the  quay  at  Antwerp.  When  I  left  the  city 
they  still  remained  there  unclaimed. 

Three  years  later,  in  one  of  the  continental 
reading-rooms,  I  took  up  the  "  Figaro,"  to  divert 
myself  with  its  faits  divers  and  echos  de  Paris. 
Between  the  last  mot  of  Madame  X.,  and  the 
announcement  of  a  fete  at  Asnieres,  I  found  a 
line  of  reference  to  a  matter  familiar  enough,  as 
it  seemed,  to  all  but  casual  readers ;  namely,  the 
division  among  the  heirs-at-law  of  a  handsome  prop 
erty,  —  that  of  one  Monsieur  Morizot.  The  name, 
and  the  mysterious  importance  given  it,  roused  my 
curiosity,  and  I  wrote  at  once  to  a  Parisian  crony 
for  fuller  information.  This  was  his  answer :  — 

"  Have  you  retired  from  the  world,  that  you  cease 
to  read  the  news  of  it?  We  are  worn  out  with 
details  of  the  life  and  death  of  Monsieur  Morizot. 
Pardon  me,  then,  if  I  recite  them  to  you  very  briefly. 
The  worthy  man  lived,  en  gar$on,  in  one  of  those 
houses  of  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Augustin  already  con 
demned  to  make  way  for  the  new  avenue  which  will 


106  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

be  a  marvel.  Like  you  he  was  a  traveller,  and  he 
often  remained  for  years  an  absentee,  staying  away 
at  last  longer  than  the  code  allows.  He  became 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  dead  man,  and  his 
heirs  demanded  to  share  his  estate,  and  to  break 
up  his  collection  of  jewels,  known  to  be  of  great 
value.  Man  proposes !  The  safe  was  opened,  but 
it  had  been  rifled,  mon  ami.  They  found  there,  in 
stead,  the  owner's  body,  stabbed  through  and  through. 
The  good  soul  had  made  a  hard  fight  of  it.  His 
hand  still  clutched  a  bit  of  watch-chain,  identified 
as  the  property  of  a  certain  Brazilian  ape  of  a  servant 
who  never  left  him.  Our  haute  police  is  enormously 
cunning.  Bit  by  bit,  the  case  has  been  worked  up, 
and  this  is  what  happened.  The  two  arrived  late 
one  night  at  the  Northern  Railway  station,  where, 
to  save  time,  at  the  servant's  suggestion,  their  trunks 
were  left  to  be  claimed  in  the  morning.  Thus  they 
installed  themselves  at  home  without  stir  and  unan 
nounced.  Then  the  man  got  the  better  of  his  master, 
and  became  in  his  turn  an  absentee.  No  one  ever 
dreamed  of  the  arrival  or  the  departure,  yet  now 
it  is  all  clear  as  though  we  saw  it  in  a  glass,  —  the 
very  date  proved  by  the  fragment  of  a  journal  found 
in  the  pocket  of  what  was  once  Monsieur  Morizot. 
Heed  the  warning,  and  travel  no  more ;  but  marry, 
and  let  madame  watch  over  you.  Get  thee  a  wife, 
mon  amour  !  Et  voila  tout !  " 

I  answered  my  foreign  correspondent  in  good 
American  fashion,  by  asking  a  question.  Upon 
what  date,  I  prayed  him,  was  the  crime  com- 


CORDON!  107 

mitted  ?  His  reply  brought  me  a  printed  slip, 
fixing  upon  the  very  night  of  my  adventure,  but 
in  the  year  preceding  it.  And  on  this  point  all 
known  records  of  the  affair  obstinately  agree. 

That  Senor  Ramon  Quizes  and  the  valet,  Cor- 
nelio,  were  one  and  the  same,  I  have  no  manner 
of  doubt ;  but  that  he  ever  could  have  revisited 
the  scene  of  his  double  crime  is  inconceivable. 
Whose  face,  then,  appeared  to  me  in  the  mirror  ? 
Whose  hands  were  washed  in  the  running  water  ? 
Who,  besides  myself,  clamored  there  in  the  dark 
for  release  from  his  own  haunting  fears  ?  Did 
I,  by  some  strange  coincidence,  dream  these  things, 
one  after  another  in  quick  succession  ?  Or  did 
the  murderer  leave  behind  him  in  his  flight  a 
ghostly  presence,  to  play  his  hideous  part  out, 
time  and  time  again,  while  the  faithful  glass  of 
Venice  reflected  line  for  line,  moment  for  moment  ? 
I  cannot  answer.  But  now,  when  I  walk  in  the 
Avenue  de  FOp^ra,  I  am  grateful  even  for  that 
dullest  of  improvement's  dull  marches,  sweeping, 
as  it  does,  all  memory  but  mine  of  my  grim 
lodging  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 


THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS. 

AS  Hazard  read  the  last  words  of  the  manu 
script,  Purkitt  knocked  the  ashes  from  his 
long  clay  pipe  and  looked  up  with  a  cheerful  smile. 
Cheerfulness,  however,  was  the  main  characteristic 
of  his  somewhat  puffy  little  personality ;  and  on 
that  unwrinkled  forty-five-year-old  face,  rendered 
rosier  than  usual  to-night  by  frequent  draughts  of 
gin-and-water,  a  smile  had  no  more  promise  in  it 
to  anxious  eyes  than  has  a  morning  rainbow. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  other,  faintly. 

He  was  a  man  under  thirty ;  but  time  had  kept 
him  in  mind  evidently.  Already  he  looked  old. 
His  face  was  thin,  pale,  and  worn ;  at  first  sight  of 
it  one  might  well  have  wondered  when  he  had  last 
eaten  a  good  dinner,  and  what  his  next  meal  was 
likely  to  be. 

"  Well,"  returned  Purkitt,  irresolutely.  Then, 
after  a  moment,  "  I  think  your  style  is  charming." 

Hazard  tossed  down  his  work  with  a  show  of 
carelessness  ;  but  one  sheet  of  it  fell  from  the 
table  upon  the  dusty  floor,  and  he  picked  this  up, 
to  brush  it  with  his  coat-sleeve  before  replying. 

"  Thank  you,  Dick ! "  said  he.  "  I  see  ;  it  is  a 
failure." 


THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  109 

Dick  Purkitt  pushed  forward  his  empty  glass 
and  twirled  it  about  with  finger-tips  unmarred  by 
any  deformity  of  labor.  They  had  toiled  early  and 
late,  but  only  with  the  pen. 

"  Victor,  dear  boy,  you  did  not  expect  me  to  call 
the  tale  a  work  of  genius,  worthy  of  —  well,  say 
Yarrow,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Dick,  of  course  not.  But  1  did  hope  to 
show  a  bit  of  progress  ;  perhaps,  even,  to  stir  your 
British  public  up  a  little.  I  worked  so  hard ;  and 
they  will  no  more  be  stirred  by  it  than  that  old 
duffer  in  the  corner  there." 

Speaking  thus, -with  eyes  that  in  vain  strove  not 
to  glisten,  he  indicated  a  man  whom  they  had 
found  asleep  by  the  gray  embers  of  the  tavern-fire. 
Dick  studied  for  a  moment  the  drooping  figure, 
with  its  folded  arms  and  hat  drawn  down  over 
the  eyes  in  deep,  serene  unconsciousness,  still  the 
same. 

"  He  has  not  turned  a  hair,"  said  he.  "  Yes  ;  the 
British  public  is  like  that.  You  must  strike  a 
higher  note  to  rouse  it.  And  yet  the  story  is  a 
good  story ;  not  Yarrow,  but  still  —  " 

"  Yarrow  —  always  Yarrow  !  " 

"  Dear  boy,  have  patience.  Even  Yarrow  had  to 
learn  his  letters.  Look  at  me  !  Grinding  the  mill 
for  five-and-twenty  years,  and  still  at  it,  —  a  hack 
writer  on  the  '  Tavistock  Review.' " 

"  Yes,  but  —         Hazard  stopped  and  sighed. 

"  I  know.     You  want  to  tell  me  your  art  is  dif- 


110  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

ferent.  That  is  true,  and  I  honor  you  for  it.  I 
keep  the  beaten  path,  and  you  must  climb.  Even 
now,  I  could  not  begin  to  do  that  thing  of  yours. 
Send  it  to  the  magazines." 

"  The  magazines !  "  echoed  Hazard,  bitterly. 

"  Well,  magazine,  then.  You  're  too  sensitive  ; 
that 's  one  of  your  troubles.  Shall  I  tell  you  an 
other  ?  Your  work  is  imitative,  —  far  too  sugges 
tive  of  your  master,  who  is  Yarrow,  I  say,  whether 
you  like  it  or  not.  Give  him  the  cold  shoulder. 
You  are  young,  but  you  have  lived.  Take  some 
passage  of  your  life,  and  put  your  heart  into  it.  If 
it  hurts  you,  so  much  the  better.  The  public  is  as 
cruel  as  a  Vestal  virgin.  I  tell  you,  it  wants  blood. 
Where  did  you  dine  to-day  ?  " 

"Here,  in  the  Silver  Cross.  Jugged  hare  and 
apple-tart,  —  not  a  bad  dinner  for  one-and-three- 
pence.  It's  the  best  luncheon-bar  I  know  in 
London." 

"  I  thought  you  looked  hungry ;  so  am  I  —  as  a 
horse.  I  say,  bring  us  supper,  will  you  ?  Cold 
joint,  and  plenty  of  it,  —  the  best  cheese  you  've  got. 
Beer  for  this  gentleman,  and  gin  for  me.  As  you 
say,  Hazard,  one  lives  well  here  for  Fleet  Street. 
Per  me,  I  prefer  the  Bristol.  For  Heaven's  sake, 
William,  coax  that  fire  up  with  another  coal  or 
two.  Don't  you  know  it 's  snowing  outside  ?  Now 
then,  Hazard,  here  's  the  beef.  Pitch  right  in,  — 
that 's  American,  is  n't  it  ?  Show  your  Yankee 
spirit,  and  make  victory  of  defeat,  as  you  did  at 


THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  Ill 

Bunker's  Hill.  Damn  it,  man,  Victor  is  your 
name ! " 

All  this  stir  in  the  little  back  parlor  at  last 
roused  its  third  occupant,  who  stretched  his  legs, 
yawned,  and  growled,  then  rose,  buttoned  his 
heavy  dark  coat  about  him,  and  thrust  his  hands 
into  the  pockets  ;  finally,  with  a  nod  to  Purkitt,  he 
passed  into  the  bar,  mumbling  to  himself,  inaudi- 
bly,  as  he  went.  They  heard  him  shuffle  on  to  the 
street-door  and  go  out. 

Hazard  had  looked  for  an  instant  at  his  dark 
face,  deeply  furrowed,  with  an  iron-gray  moustache 
large  enough  to  cover  the  lips  and  half  the  military 
tuft  upon  the  chin  ;  with  enormous  eyebrows,  black 
as  jet,  under  which  the  eyes  shrunk  away  into  what 
seemed  empty  sockets  ;  yet  in  them  lurked  a  scru 
tiny  so  keen  that  the  boy  had  lowered  his  own  eyes 
at  once,  catching  his  breath  with  something  like  a 
chill.  The  jar  of  the  closing  door  was  a  relief. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  His  name  is  Rose,"  said  Purkitt.  "  Odd  chap, 
is  n't  he  ?  Some  men  like  him  ;  1  don't,  or  I  would 
have  asked  him  to  stay.  Queer  devil,  —  they  tell 
absurd  stories  of  him." 

"  What  stories  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mere  rot.  They  say  he  dabbles  in  the 
black  arts,  the  occult  and  the  unknowable.  He 
may  deal  with  the  Devil,  for  aught  I  know ;  there 
are  various  ways  of  doing  that,  and  his  looks  are 
in  favor  of  him.  But  the  rest  is  rubbish." 


112  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  What  is  the  rest  ?     Go  on." 

"  Well,  that  he  can  live  forever,  if  he  pleases. 
That  he  pursues  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  has 
caught  up  with  the  elixir  of  long  life ;  that  he  is 
one  of  those  German  fellows,  —  a  Rosicrucian.  He 
is  shy  about  stating  his  age,  and  his  name  happens 
to  be  Rose.  That 's  all,  but  it 's  quite  enough  to 
start  the  story." 

"  Has  he  no  profession  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  capital  profession.  He  is  an  inventor 
who  has  never  invented  anything ;  with  means,  of 
course,  or  he  could  n't  exist.  Drake  said,  the  other 
day,  he  had  seen  his  rooms  ;  but  there  was  nothing 
in  them,  so  far  as  I  could  discover.  Eat  your  sup 
per,  old  man,  and  let  us  change  the  subject.  I 
hate  quackery  and  all  its  works." 

They  ate  and  drank  until  a  late  hour,  —  that  is, 
one  made  a  good  meal,  and  the  other  did  the  drink 
ing.  Gin  agreed  with  him,  he  said,  and  he  seemed 
none  the  worse  for  it.  As  they  parted,  the  bar 
maid  complimented  him  on  his  good  looks,  he  re 
torting  in  a  way  that  led  her  to  blush.  For  a  time 
the  place  rang  with  his  boisterous  mirth,  and  when 
he  was  gone  the  girl  sighed,  and  told  William  that 
Mr.  Purkitt  was  a  nice  gentleman. 

Victor  Hazard  would  have  confirmed  her  state 
ment,  had  it  been  made  in  his  hearing.  Purkitt 
took  his  arm  and  returned  good  advice  for  it,  as  they 
splashed  up  Fleet  Street  to  the  Strand  through  the 
wet  snow-flakes,  melting  into  grimy  mud  at  their  feet. 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  113 

"  Now,  dear  boy,  do  as  I  tell  you.  Send  that 
thing  off  to-morrow  morning,  and  begin  on  another 
the  moment  you  leave  the  bank.  Strike  deep ; 
stick  the  knife  in  up  to  the  handle,  and  turn  it 
round.  Don't  give  way,  whatever  happens.  Fight 
the  good  fight,  and  win.  And  if  you  get  short, 
mind  you  come  to  me." 

"  Yes,  Dick,"  said  Hazard.  There  was  some 
thing  in  his  throat  that  choked  off  further  speech ; 
so  he  merely  stood  still,  to  detach  himself  from  the 
friendly  arm  and  offer  his  hand  instead.  "  Good 
night  to  you ! " 

"  To  be  sure,  there  is  the  bridge ;  you  go  that 
way.  Well,  good-night!  God  bless  you!" 

And  Purkitt  went  sliding  on  over  another  mile 
of  the  slippery  pavement  to  his  club,  in  Piccadilly, 
where  other  dear  boys  were  gathered  about  the  fire, 
and  where  he  made  a  cheerful  night  of  it,  putting 
the  struggles  and  possible  successes  of  the  young 
Anglo-American  quite  out  of  mind. 

Hazard  waited  on  the  corner  looking  after  his 
friend.  His  throat  no  longer  troubled  him ;  the 
tears  trickled  down  his  checks. 

"  What  a  good  fellow ! "  he  thought ;  "  and  how 
little  of  me  he  really  knows !  He  has  never  had 
to  worry  about  his  bread-and-butter;  he  cannot 
imagine  what  it  is." 

Across  the  way  he  heard  a  sudden  slamming  of 
doors ;  and  then  a  laughing  crowd  burst  out  upon 
him.  The  play  was  over  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre. 


114  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

The  cabbies  swore  and  shouted  and  lashed  their 
patient  horses.  A  young  girl,  all  in  white,  gleamed 
like  a  will-o'-the-wisp  under  the  columns  of  the 
portico  and  disappeared.  Hazard,  turning  away, 
walked  on  to  the  gate  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  paid  the 
moderate  price  of  solitude,  and  speedily  it  wras  his. 
Half-way  over  he  stopped  to  look  down.  The 
sluggish  river  below  crept  on  darkly  in  the  night, 
lapping  filth  and  squalor,  and  nameless  horrors  al 
most  inconceivable,  to  purify  itself  at  last  in  the 
healing  water  of  the  sea.  Above  him  too  there 
was  little  more  than  darkness ;  the  distant  lights 
blinked  feebly,  softened  by  the  snow.  All  looked 
solemn,  mysterious,  death-like.  It  was  the  place 
of  suicides,  —  the  very  time  of  year,  as  the  histo 
rian  of  statistics  demonstrated  long  ago.  Hazard 
smiled  at  it. 

"  There  is  always  this,"  he  muttered,  fixing  h's 
eyes  upon  a  single  flake  of  snow  that  passed 
through  the  narrow  circle  illumined  by  the  nearest 
bridge-lamp  and  then  vanished.  "  Always  this  to 
help  us  out.  A  snow-flake  on  the  river  in  the 
night,  —  gone  before  it  strikes  the  water,  —  it  leaves 
no  mark.  How  can  a  thread  of  talent  hope  to  do 
more  upon  the  black  indifference  of  the  world  ? " 
He  leaned  over  the  parapet,  and  drew  back. 
"  Not  yet ! "  he  said  and  went  his  way  resolutely, 
defiantly. 

He  lived  in  one  of  those  attic  chambers  on  the 
Surrey  shore  over  which  a  loop  of  railway  de- 


THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  115 

scribes  the  wide  arc  of  a  circle  between  Cannon 
Street  and  Charing  Cross.  This  ten-minute  jour 
ney,  with  its  dissolving  views  of  the  river,  the  Em 
bankment,  the  towering  landmarks  of  Westminster 
and  Ludgate  Hill,  is  one  of  the  sights  of  London  ; 
one  that  wears  well  too,  and  may  be  seen  many 
times  before  the  dull  lens  of  habit  blurs  it.  Its 
best  side  was  all  at  Hazard's  command.  The  out 
look  from  his  window  over  the  sooty  tiles,  from 
the  Victoria  Tower  on  one  side  to  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's  on  the  other,  was  never  twice  the  same. 
The  fogs  in  winter  did  their  black  and  yellow 
worst,  but  they  were  forever  shifting,  —  strange 
lights  shone  out  in  them ;  and  at  night  they  were 
almost  sure  to  lift  and  let  the  stars  look  down. 
The  trains  thundered  about  his  ears  incessantly, 
but  a  noise  that  lasts  is  no  longer  a  nuisance  ;  only 
silence  becomes  painful,  —  as  on  a  steamship  when 
the  engine  stops  in  mid-ocean,  and  one  longs  for 
the  beating  soul  of  the  machine. 

Victor  Hazard  was  the  son  of  a  poor  gentleman 
who  had  pinched  himself  to  give  his  boy  what  he 
considered  a  suitable  education ;  then,  dying  sud 
denly,  had  left  him  alone  in  the  world  of  New 
York,  with  an  inordinate  desire  to  shine  before  his 
fellow-men,  —  his  capital  being  a  good  face,  a  fail- 
knowledge  of  the  classics,  an  illegible  hand-writing, 
and  a  fondness  for  society.  Of  dollars  and  cents 
his  supply  became  wofully  scant.  Accepting,  ac 
cordingly,  the  first  clerkship  offered  to  him,  he 


116  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

filled  it  perfunctorily,  but  acceptably,  though  no 
prospect  of  his  advancement  was  ever  suggested ; 
until  his  evil  fortune  lured  him  into  falling  in  love 
with  his  employer's  daughter,  and  inspired  her 
cruelly  to  encourage  him.  She  was  rich,  he  over 
scrupulous  ;  her  fortune  was  a  barrier  that  he  con 
ceived  to  be  insurmountable.  The  entanglement 
might  thus  have  prolonged  itself  indefinitely,  had 
not  she,  growing  tired  of  it,  forced  him  to  show  his 
hand  and  beg  for  hers.  In  answer  she  raised  her 
eyebrows  and  wondered  what  he  could  mean.  She 
was  very  sorry ;  she  had  never  consciously  given 
him  cause  to  hope.  How  could  he  have  misunder 
stood  her  so  ?  Through  an  odd  coincidence,  but 
really  nothing  more,  it  happened,  within  a  week, 
that  her  father  resolved  to  reduce  the  sum-total  of 
his  salary-list  by  dispensing  with  Mr.  Hazard's  ser 
vices.  He  was  very  sorry,  —  the  family  seemed 
conventional  in  its  expression  of  regret,  —  but  the 
business,  etc.,  did  not  warrant,  etc.,  etc.,  and  Mr. 
Hazard  could  at  any  time  rely,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  upon 
his  recommendation. 

Poor  Victor  had  been  told,  so  often  as  to  believe 
it,  that  a  woman's  "  no  "  means  "  yes  "  at  certain 
times.  As  in  war  the  odds  are  all  against  the  be 
leaguered  city  if  the  invaders  stand  their  ground,  so 
in  love  dogged  persistence  nearly  always  conquers 
in  the  end.  In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  felt  that  he 
need  only  wait  defiantly  to  gain  this  girl's  admira 
tion,  pity,  love.  But  once  more  his  honest  scruples 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  117 

overcame  him.  She  was  fabulously  rich,  he  a  beg 
gar.  In  a  weak  moment  he  had  miserably  ignored 
this  ;  she  had  been  to  blame  for  the  weakness 
which  now  led  him  to  despise  himself.  He  must 
prove  to  her,  if  possible,  that  he  was  no  vulgar 
soldier  of  fortune ;  he  must  bear  defeat  with  dig 
nity  ;  he  could  not  hunt  her  down.  He  abandoned 
the  field  at  once,  and  did  his  best  to  hate  her. 
Can  a  man  ever  accomplish  that  when  he  has 
really  loved  the  ideal  woman  his  fancy  has  created  ? 
Victor,  certainly,  made  bad  work  of  it ;  he  could 
not,  even  to  himself,  reproach  this  paragon.  He 
only  had  been  to  blame.  She  was  too  good  for 
him,  for  earth ;  she  was  divine.  He  must  never 
see  her  any  more.  He  must  put  the  ocean  between 
them,  and  make  his  whole  life  a  struggle  to  forget 
his  own  faultless  line  of  beauty,  eternally  graven 
upon  his  heart,  an  indelible  sorrow. 

A  friend,  who  half  suspected  his  secret,  stepped 
in  at  this  critical  moment  and  offered  him  an  in 
significant  place  on  the  staff  of  a  great  London 
banking-house.  The  pay  was  a  mere  pittance,  ab 
surdly  small  for  his  native  city ;  he  could  barely 
live  upon  it  even  in  London.  But  Victor  accepted 
the  terms  gratefully,  laughed  hunger  in  the  face, 
and  told  his  anxious  friend  it  should  be  made  a 
stepping-stone  to  higher  things.  So  he  fled  to  the 
great  heart  of  civilization  as  to  a  hermitage  in  the 
desert,  lost  his  identity,  and  became  a  toiling  unit 
in  the  ant-hill,  a  mere  mechanic  of  routine.  He 


118  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

carried  letters  of  introduction  which  it  pleased  him 
to  destroy  unpresented.  He  made  few  acquaint 
ances,  fewer  friends.  Dick  Purkitt  was  the  only 
man  who  could  be  said  to  have  grown  intimate 
with  him.  And  Purkitt  did  not  know  him  long, 
before  he  felt  that  he  should  never  know  this  odd 
stick  of  an  American  any  better.  Victor  had  been 
drawn  to  him,  but  not  closely,  never  losing  his 
head,  never  expanding.  Dick  remained  baffled, 
but  still  interested ;  he  took  what  Victor  gave,  and 
he  asked  no  more,  abused  him  for  his  false  pride, 
and  inwardly  admired  it. 

Day  after  day  Hazard  bent  over  his  desk  in  the 
huge,  dingy  counting-house,  multiplying  infinitely 
his  journal-entries,  till  the  load  of  dull  monotony 
weighed  upon  him  like  the  rock  of  Sisyphus.  The 
room  was  favorably  known  in  the  City  of  London, 
and  lay  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Threadneedle 
Street ;  it  was  low,  ill-ventilated,  and  it  quartered 
a  small  army  of  the  overworked  and  underpaid  be 
neath  its  glass  ceiling,  which  admitted  foggy  light, 
in  a  qualified,  commercial  way,  to  fifty  hollow-eyed 
and  sallow  faces.  They  could  see,  could  be  seen  ; 
what  more  was  needed  ?  By  good  or  bad  luck  the 
American  had  found  his  allotted  place  near  the 
only  window  in  this  dreary  tread-mill.  He  could 
look  up  from  his  worn  page,  across  a  flagged  court 
to  the  eastern  wall  of  an  old  City  church,  whose 
chancel  windows  had  at  least  imagination  in  them, 
—  on  the  other  side.  Too  often  he  caught  himself 


THE   TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  119 

trying  to  trace  out  their  design,  idly  wondering 
about  their  colors.  He  never  took  the  trouble 
to  study  them  from  the  proper  point  within  the 
church,  —  he  never  really  cared  a  button  for  them. 
His  day-dreams  merely  took  this  fragmentary  shape 
in  the  beginning,  piling  up  afterward  like  storm- 
clouds  between  him  and  the  church-wall,  till  they 
had  obscured  it.  Then  his  neighbor  at  the  desk, 
alert,  fond  of  work,  and  quick  at  figures,  would  jog 
his  elbow,  chaffing  him. 

"  How  many  stones  are  there  in  that  wall, 
Hazard  ?  Are  you  going  to  build  one  like  it  ?  " 

And  the  lynx-eyed  bank-manager,  noting  Victor's 
lapse  in  duty,  would  make  a  mental  black-mark 
against  the  truant  understanding,  and  whisper  to 
himself,  — 

"Hazard  is  a  £100  clerk,  —  that 's  all." 

Finally  those  dark  stones  did  their  destined  mis 
chief,  and  founded  in  Victor's  heart  the  accursed 
fabric  of  a  literary  ambition.  Why  not,  he  thought, 
turn  one's  imagination  to  account,  and  help  out  one's 
bread-and-butter  with  vin  ordinaire,  if  not  with  the 
intoxicating  draught  of  fame?  His  first  venture 
proved  likewise  his  first  misfortune,  for  he  found 
an  editor  willing  to  accept  it.  All  seemed  plain 
sailing  now.  His  boat  was  launched ;  he  had  but 
to  let  out  the  sheet  and  fly  before  the  favoring 
breeze.  But  alas,  the  sky  soon  grew  overcast,  the 
sea  troubled ;  the  winds  blew  counter,  or  they  died 
away.  His  ideas  came  to  him  slowly,  painfully. 


120  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

His  little  birds  chirped,  but  did  not  sing;  he  set 
them  free  to  beat  the  air  with  feeble  wings,  to  be 
swept  back  and  die  unheard.  The  fumes  of  the 
lamp  got  into  his  brain  and  clogged  it.  He  tossed 
through  sleepless  nights,  while  visionary  clots  of 
blood,  those  danger-signals  of  the  unresting  train 
of  thought,  swam  before  his  staring  eves.  Then 
the  long,  stifling  day  at  his  desk  became  a  terror 
to  him,  the  task  a  torture ;  he  went  to  it  with  hag 
gard  looks,  as  in  a  trance,  performing  it  he  knew 
not  how.  But  at  night  he  lived  again,  still  toiling 
on  in  his  garret  under  the  stars.  His  own  might 
never  rise,  —  well,  so  much  the  worse;  he  must 
do  without  it.  He  had  been  bitten  by  the  taran 
tula  ;  he  was  dancing  mad,  and  conscious  of  the 
mania,  could  only  murmur  to  himself,  in  bitter 
consolation,  the  sad  foreboding  of  the  German 
poet :  — 

"One  taste  of  the  immortal  fruit  of  fame, 
Like  to  Proserpina's  pomegranate-seeds, 
Ranks  thee  forever  with  the  quiet  shades, 
And  to  the  living  thou  belong'st  no  more."1 

Now  and  then  the  tide  up-bore  him.  When  he 
went  to  press,  no  matter  how  obscurely,  all  his  cour 
age  would  revive,  and  sanguine  to  absurdity,  he 
would  expect  too  much ;  instant  recognition  from 
the  entire  English-reading  world ;  the  meed  of 
genius  ;  a  horn  of  plenty  overflowing  at  his  feet,  — 
in  short,  miracles.  And  when  all  these  failed 

1  Grillparzer's  Sappho  ;  Ellen  Frothingham's  translation. 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  121 

him,  when  the  spheres  coldly  kept  their  course 
indifferent  to  his,  he  would  sink  down,  down,  each 
time  a  little  lower,  toward  a  despair  of  suicidal 
depth.  His  temper  was  fitful  as  the  flight  of  an 
arrow  shot  over  a  sunlit  glacier  to  miss  its  mark 
and  fall  into  some  crevasse  beyond  the  glimpse 
of  day. 

The  fit  was  on  him  that  night ;  the  fever  first, 
and  then  the  chill.  When  he  begged  Dick  Purkitt 
for  a  hearing,  he  did  so  with  the  firm  belief  that 
the  critic  would  warm  at  his  work,  would  call  it 
his  best,  perhaps  the  best  that  ever  was.  On  the 
contrary  the  old  hack  had  hardly  pricked  up  his 
ears.  He  had  been  considerate,  of  course, —  only 
damning  with  faint  praise  what  had  faintly  touched 
him ;  that  was  enough.  The  fire  was  out  in  Vic 
tor's  shabby  lodging ;  at  sight  of  the  familiar  room 
he  shivered,  but  not  with  cold,  —  only  with  the  re 
membrance  of  the  half-frenzied  hope  he  had  car 
ried  away  from  the  place  earlier  in  the  evening. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  burn  the  ineffective  mas 
terpiece  in  the  sputtering  candle-flame.  But  he 
thought  better  of  it ;  and  mailed  the  manuscript 
to  one  of  his  editors,  early  the  next  morning, 
thus  following  Dick's  advice,  in  part.  For  he 
did  not  begin  upon  another,  did  not  even  grope 
for  a  new  idea ;  but  only  stared  at  nothing  in  a 
state  of  mental  torpor,  like  a  criminal  awaiting 
sentence. 

At  least  a  fortnight  must  go  by  without  an  an- 


122  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

swer ;  and  the  end  of  the  year,  always  an  anxious 
time  with  Victor,  was  close  at  hand.  He  needed 
money ;  he  was  not  in  debt,  but  on  New  Year's 
Day  there  would  be  accounts  to  settle.  He  had 
been  a  long  time  in  the  bank,  had  never  missed 
an  hour,  never  asked  for  an  increase  of  pay.  It 
occurred  to  him  now  to  submit  his  case  with  be 
coming  modesty,  mildly  to  request  what  he  felt 
should  be  granted  ungrudgingly  at  the  first  sug 
gestion.  If  he  was  worth  anything,  he  told  him 
self,  he  was  worth  more  than  a  paltry  ,£100.  Yet 
he  postponed  the  purposed  interview,  nervously 
appointing  -to-morrow  for  it,  and  then  to-morrow, 
until  at  length  Christmas  and  Boxing-Day  came 
next.  Little  time  remained  to  lose  ;  it  would  be 
better  to  decide  the  question  before  the  holiday. 
He  watched  his  opportunity,  and  at  last  caught  the 
manager  at  leisure  and  alone.  He  was  no  advo 
cate  ;  his  voice  faltered  in  the  middle  of  a  dis 
jointed  phrase ;  the  stern  features  of  the  judge 
gave  him  110  encouragement ;  the  answer  was  short 
and  to  the  point. 

"There  are  many  young  men  in  London,  Mr. 
Hazard,  who  would  be  glad  to  do  your  work  for 
£100." 

Mr.  Hazard  admitted  that,  but  — 

"  We  cannot  consider  it ;  I  am  sorry,  but  the 
fault  is  your  own.  They  tell  me  you  are  trying  to 
serve  two  masters  ;  you  will  never  get  on  so  in 
London.  Do  one  thing  or  the  other,  and  put  your 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  123 

heart  into  it.     That  is  the  best  answer  I  can  give 
you.     Good-morning ! " 

The  atom  dropped  back  silently  to  its  place  in 
the  swarm.  In  that  short  absence  a  black  fog, 
dense,  impenetrable,  like  a  funeral  veil,  had  set 
tled  down  outside  the  window.  Shreds  of  it  even 
drifted  in-doors  and  set  the  weaker  ones  to  cough 
ing,  —  they  laughed  and  coughed  again  vaporously. 
The  gas  was  lighted  and  soon  burned  out.  Even 
London  resources  fail  with  sudden  pressure  put 
upon  them.  Candles  glimmered  about,  and  in  the 
dim,  smoky  atmosphere  the  working-day  went  on. 
Nothing  short  of  a  convulsion  of  Nature  can  snap 
the  main-spring  of  mercantile  routine.  Victor's 
senses  were  benumbed,  and  the  hours  seemed  short 
to  him ;  he  forgot  to  give  his  usual  sigh  of  relief 
when  the  clock  struck  and  the  night-birds  were 
set  free.  The  fog  had  grown  thicker,  heavier.  He 
made  his  lonely  way  through  it,  from  lamp  to  lamp, 
over  the  viaduct,  along  Holborn,  in  and  out  of  the 
intricate  Drury  Lane  quarter,  to  a  stuffy  coffee 
house  in  Covent  Garden,  where,  if  the  dinner  was 
frugal,  the  beer  was  of  the  best.  The  foaming 
tankard  quickened  him ;  he  could  think  now.  But 
there  was  too  much  Christmas  jollity  in  the  place 
for  him.  He  went  out,  took  the  shortest  cut  to 
the  Strand,  and  reaching  it,  hesitated  at  the  street 
corner.  The  sight  was  curious.  Link-boys  ran 
before  the  horses,  shouting  and  brandishing  their 
torches ;  a  hurrying  glare,  with  the  barbaric  light 


124  DAY  AND    NIGHT  STORIES. 

of  the  past  in  it,  that  flashed  by  and  left  a  deeper 
gloom.  It  might  have  been  a  scene  of  Shake 
speare's  time.  The  shops  were  crowded.  In  the 
one  behind  him  sprigs  of  holly  and  mistletoe 
gleamed  red  and  white  through  the  frosted  panes. 
After  a  moment's  thought  Victor  turned  his  face 
toward  Westminster.  The  way  home  was  longer, 
but  that  bridge  cost  nothing.  When  he  came  to 
Charing  Cross,  the  fog  had  lifted  a  little ;  he  went 
on,  and  it  grew  lighter ;  now  he  could  see  the  shin 
ing  clock-face  in  the  Albert  Tower ;  as  he  passed 
under  it  the  four  quarters  chimed  out  musically, 
and  the  great  bell  struck  the  hour,  —  ten  o'clock. 
So  late  ?  Well,  to-morrow  was  a  holiday.  The 
lights  glanced  in  the  river,  the  steamers  whistled, 
the  omnibuses  rattled  along  the  bridge.  Overhead 
a  star  sparkled,  but  he  did  not  see  it.  He  was 
thinking  of  to-morrow. 

"Do  one  thing  or  the  other,  and  put  your  heart 
into  it." 

Why  ?  For  what  unprofitable  purpose  ?  Why 
not  let  the  tired  muscles  relax,  the  worn  brain- 
cells  cease  their  reproduction  ? 

Straightway  he  recalled  some  lines  of  his  own 
from  a  published  story  that  had  escaped  critical 
notice,  so  far  as  he  knew ;  and  he  made  them  the 
burden  of  his  walk  in  mournful  reiteration,  — 

"  Man,  in  the  struggle  of  life,  is  like  a  poor  bull 
baited  in  the  arena,  pricked  and  goaded  and  tor 
tured  he  knows  not  why,  finding  no  escape; 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  125 

before,  behind  him,  only  a  great  darkness  closing 
in." 

"  That  is  true  ! "  he  cried  as  he  turned  the  key 
in  his  lock.  "  Yes,  that  is  true." 

On  the  table  lay  a  roll  of  paper,  which  he  tore 
apart.  His  manuscript  was  returned  with  a  printed 
word  of  formal  thanks,  —  rejected.  It  was  no  less 
than  should  have  been  foreseen,  but  it  struck  Victor 
with  the  pang  of  a  bullet. 

"  He  might  have  written,"  he  said ;  then  dropped 
where  he  stood  in  tears. 

After  a  time  his  face  cleared  itself  and  came  out 
white  and  calm,  firmly  set  with  a  new  resolve.  He 
tossed  the  manuscript  with  a  dozen  others  into  the 
grate  and  made  a  bonfire,  crouching  before  it  and 
warming  his  hands  at  the  blaze.  He  blew  out 
his  lamp  and  paced  the  room  awhile  in  the  dark. 
Then,  with  a  strange  lightness  of  manner,  he  went 
back  to  the  streets,  leaving  his  door  flung  open 
wide  behind  him.  The  fog  was  almost  gone,  the 
air  clearer  and  colder. 

"  To-morrow  will  be  fine,"  he ,  thought,  following 
briskly  a  familiar  course  toward  the  City,  —  not 
that  by  wrhich  he  had  come,  but  the  other,  the 
shorter  one,  to  Waterloo. 

He  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  toll-gatherer  as  he 
paid  his  fee.  On  the  bridge  he  met  only  one 
man,  —  a  muffled  figure,  breathing  through  a  black 
band  drawn  tight  over  the  lower  part  of  the  face, 
by  way  of  precaution,  not  unusual,  against  the 


126  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

penetrating  dampness  of  the  English  winter.  The 
steps  died  away  behind  him  ;  he  stopped  at  the 
middle  of  the  bridge,  and  turned  into  a  niche 
over  one  of  its  great  piers.  The  light  in  his  face 
had  gone  out ;  he  was  cold  now  and  trembling  ;  he 
leaned  against  the  dank  wall  to  steady  himself. 
At  that  moment  the  mellow  chimes  of  midnight, 
ushering  in  the  Christian  festival,  pealed  and 
echoed  in  a  hundred  spires  ;  the  air  seemed  filled 
with  music,  —  his  ears  hardly  heard  that  sweetest 
of  all  sounds.  He  swung  himself  forward  upon 
the  wall. 

"...  only  a  great  darkness  closing  in." 

Nearer,  —  nearer.     Now  ! 

He  had  spoken  no  word.  It  was  his  action  only 
that  a  voice  behind  him  interrupted. 

"  Not  yet !  "  said  the  voice.  A  strong  hand 
grasped  him  by  the  shoulder  and  pulled  him 
back. 

"  Let  me  go  ! "  he  cried  imploringly  ;  and  turn 
ing,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  stranger 
who  had  just  passed  him  on  the  bridge.  The  figure 
unmuffled  itself,  removed  the  dark  bandage  from 
its  mouth  and  chin,  and  stood  before  him  revealed, 
recognizable. 

"  Mr.  Rose  !  "  he  gasped. 

"  You  know  my  name,  then.  I  see  ;  Purkitt 
told  you.  Yes,  it  is  I,  —  Merlin  Rose." 

"  Merlin  Rose,"  repeated  Victor,  as  though  the 
name  were  a  spell  to  conjure  with.  There  was  a 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  127 

kind  of  enchantment  in  this  mysterious  presence 
close  upon  him  at  this  place  and  time. 

"  Mr.  Hazard,  is  it  not  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  You  wonder  why  I  turned  about.  It  was  he- 
cause  I  know  your  work  and  like  it,  —  your  brain- 
work,  I  mean.  It  may  be  that  I  can  help  you ; 
if  not,  no  harm  is  done." 

"  You  know  my  work  ?  "  said  Victor,  startled 
and  dazed  by  the  unexpected  word  of  praise. 

"  Yes  ;  I  once  read  a  passage  about  life,  that  I 
have  always  remembered." 

Thereupon  he  quoted  the  gloomy  lines  driven 
back  that  night  like  spectres  to  haunt  the  brain 
that  had  conceived  them. 

"  Well,  it  is  the  truth,"  sighed  Victor,  in  reply. 

"  An  imperfect  truth.  You  have  stared  at  the 
sun  through  smoked  glass.  For  better  or  worse, 
it  was  your  only  source  of  daylight.  You  need 
not  have  stared  at  it  at  all." 

Victor's  eyes  filled,  but  he  did  not  answer.  The 
truth  expressed  itself  in  these  lines  also. 

"  Come  !  "  said  the  other,  in  a  kindly  voice.  "  I 
have  admired  your  courage,  —  let  me  do  so  still. 
You  may  be  sure  of  my  sympathy.  Walk  on  with 
me  out  of  the  night-air,  which  I  find  dangerous. 
We  will  talk  of  your  work,  —  it  interests  me." 

Then  Victor  broke  down  completely.  And  his 
new  friend  soothed  him  with  a  quiet  word  or  two 
and  with  gentle  touches  of  the  hand,  as  he  would 


128  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

have  comforted  a  tired  child.  They  turned  from 
that  awful  brink  of  suicide  into  the  living  tide  of 
London,  —  ebb-tide  now.  Even  the  Strand  was 
almost  deserted  ;  the  theatre-doors  were  shut,  the 
jewelled  eyes  of  their  transparencies  put  out.  But 
the  loitering  cab-man  still  hailed  them  from  his 
perch ;  the  wine-shops  kept  open  house,  suffused 
with  warm  light,  murmurous  with  voices. 

As  they  walked  and  talked  Victor  drew  closer  to 
his  companion,  deeply  interested,  yet  looking  ask 
ance  at  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and  fascination, 
partly  due,  no  doubt,  to  Purkitt's  tale.  He  had  never 
seen  so  singular  a  face.  It  was  gaunt,  yet  handsome ; 
the  complexion  a  deep  olive,  very  clear ;  the  heavy 
wrinkles  in  it  came  and  went,  sometimes  vanished 
altogether.  The  eyes  were  still  mere  suggestions, 
remote,  immovable  points  of  blackness  under  the 
bushy,  restless  eyebrows.  Something  invisible  cast 
over  the  man  a  perpetual  shadow ;  but  through  it 
he  spoke  emphatically,  hopefully,  —  his  praise  took 
the  form  of  a  promise.  Heights  could  be  attained, 
rewards  reaped,  depending  only  upon  courage. 
There  was  a  way,  a  sure  one, — the  royal  road  it 
might  be  called,  —  if  one  dared  try  it.  Then  he 
hinted  at  a  certain  process  to  be  undergone.  Many 
had  ventured  to  test  its  efficacy,  always  with  a 
favorable  result.  But  —  and  here  he  turned  upon 
Victor  that  blank,  scrutinous  look,  sharper  in  its 
effect  than  the  chill  of  the  winter's  night  —  it 
wanted  courage. 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  129 

What  of  that  promise  ?  Was  there  really  some 
infusion  or  decoction  to  transmute  mediocrity  into 
genius  ?  —  a  subtle  elixir,  not  of  long  life,  but  of 
inspiration  ?  Victor  put  a  question,  apparently 
foreign  to  the  matter,  but  nevertheless  a  leading 
one. 

"  Are  you  a  doctor  by  profession  ? "  he  asked. 

"  No  ;  an  engraver,"  replied  the  friend  whom  he 
half  liked,  half  dreaded. 

An  engraver !  What  a  puzzling  answer  !  An 
odd  chap  this,  as  Dick  had  called  him. 

"  Ah !  an  inventor  too,  I  suppose,"  continued 
Victor,  quoting  a  part  of  Dick  Purkitt's  jocose 
description. 

"  Yes  ;  who  has  never  invented  anything,"  re 
turned  Mr.  Rose,  completing  the  jest  with  sur 
prising  fidelity.  "  Here  we  are  ;  wait  a  moment 
until  I  can  strike  a  light.  The  stairs  are  steep." 

He  had  stopped  before  a  house  in  a  narrow 
street  curving  out  of  St.  Martin's  Lane  toward 
Leicester  Square.  On  the  ground-floor  Victor  no 
ticed  the  closed  shutters  of  a  shop.  One  short 
flight,  partitioned  off  from  it,  led  them  to  the 
apartment  overhead,  where  Mr.  Rose  inhabited 
three  or  four  small  rooms,  low-studded  and  plainly 
furnished.  One  of  these  seemed  to  be  his  work 
shop,  for  it  contained  a  drawing-board  littered  with 
engraver's  tools  ;  passing  this  disorder  by,  he  un 
locked  a  small  door  and  ushered  his  guest  into 
a  circular  alcove,  fitted  up  with  some  degree  of 

9 


130  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

luxury,  —  a  windowless  place,  heavily  draped  with 
curtains  of  dusky  red  that  fell  together  over  the 
door-way.  Upon  the  low,  concave  ceiling  a  map  of 
the  world  was  painted.  A  fire  burned  brightly  ; 
two  easy-chairs  were  drawn  before  it,  and  light 
streamed  down  upon  them  from  an  illuminated 
clock,  the  only  ornament  of  the  chimney-piece ; 
on  its  glass  dial  seven  clear-cut  stars  were  scat 
tered  irregularly ;  through  them  the  light  shone 
more  brilliantly,  but  with  a  soft,  celestial  radiance, 
white  and  still. 

Over  the  clock  hung  a  drawing  in  red  chalk,  — 
a  young  man's  portrait,  suggesting  rather  than  re 
sembling  the  first  Napoleon. 

"  My  own,"  said  Mr.  Rose,  following  the  thought 
in  Victor's  eyes.  "  A  good  likeness,  once." 

And  Victor,  looking  closely,  saw  that  the  sketch 
was  signed,  "  Gerard." 

On  a  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  lay 
a  thick  folio  bound  in  leather,  with  metal  clasps 
which  Mr.  Rose  drew  back.  Then  he  lifted  one  of 
the  heavy  covers  and  let  it  fall  again. 

"  If  I  understand  you  rightly,"  he  said,  "  you 
want  certain  things  which  I  can  give  you,  perhaps, 
should  you  trust  me  fearlessly." 

"  If  you  mean  the  world's  notice  and  encourage 
ment,  —  yes,"  Victor  replied. 

"  In  one  word,  —  success,"  continued  Mr.  Rose. 
"  But  are  you  ready  to  pay  the  price  ?  Not  to  me 
in  money,  —  our  vows  prohibit  that.  We  do  not 


THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  131 

sell ;  we  give.  I  refer  to  your  own  act  of  sacrifice, 
that  calls  for  superhuman  courage." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  This.  Will  you  buy  fame  with  mortal  breath  ? 
Will  you  run  your  allotted  course,  with  all  its  trials, 
its  possible  triumphs,  its  unquestionable  reverses  ? 
Or  will  you  snatch  the  Promethean  fire,  write  your 
name  in  flaming  letters,  and  die  when  this  is  done, 
shortening  your  life,  it  may  be,  by  fifty  of  its 
years  ?  " 

"  More  !  "  cried  Victor  ;  "  by  all  but  one  !  Give 
me  one  glorious  year  to  leave  its  mark  behind  it, 
and  take  the  rest !  Death  comes  but  once.  Let 
mine  come  so." 

"  Ah ! "  sighed  Mr.  Rose,  "  how  many  of  you 
have  made  me  the  same  answer  !  Reflect,  before 
it  is  too  late.  Even  for  immortality  the  cost  is 
fearful." 

"  I  have  reflected,"  Victor  returned.  "  In  my 
dreams  I  have  often  made  this  very  choice.  If 
you  can  really  offer  it,  my  courage  will  not  fail 
me.  I  am  ready  ;  place  me  where  I  can  choose." 

In  answer  Mr.  Rose  opened  the  book  before  him. 

"  That  you  may  see  I  am  in  earnest,"  said 
he,  "  read  a  few  of  the  names  that  are  written 
here.  All  these  have  in  turn  submitted  themselves 
to  me.  Their  lasting  renown  is  your  best  security. 
I  am  to  be  trusted.  See  !  Not  one  that,  living, 
was  not  famous ;  that,  dying,  did  not  take  his 
place  among  the  stars.  Read  !  Read  !  ", 


132  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

All  the  earlier  pages  of  the  volume  were  sealed 
together  ;  but  where  it  had  opened,  the  loose  leaves 
were  inscribed  with  many  signatures  of  the  noble 
dead.  Victor  turned  them  slowly,  coming  at  last 
to  the  name  of  a  man  still  alive,  already  a  celebrity. 
He  started  at  the  sight  of  it,  recognizing  at  once 
the  hand  of  his  master,  —  Yarrow.  All  beyond 
was  blank. 

"  I  make  but  one  condition,"  said  Mr.  Rose, 
as  he  put  the  pen  into  Victor's  hand  ;  "  and  that 
is  absolute  secrecy.  You  will  never  speak  of  this 
visit,  or  of  me.  Under  the  world's  eye  we  do 
not  know  each  other  ;  remember  that.  You  give 
me  your  word  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Victor,  signing  without  a  moment's 
hesitation.  "  What  more  is  there  to  do  ?  " 

"  Your  part  is  done,"  replied  the  other,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Sit  here  by  the  fire  —  a  little  nearer 
—  so.  Look  up  at  the  clock.  I  shall  not  detain 
you  long." 

His  words  died  away  in  whispers.  The  minute- 
hand  stood  still.  The  flame  behind  it  was  steady, 
colorless  ;  the  stars  were  cold,  like  planets.  Had 
they,  like  the  planets,  burned  for  ages  ?  Could 
this  unknown  benefactor  be  in  truth  a  Rosicru- 
cian  ?  No  matter.  His  command  must  be  obeyed 
blindly,  blindly. 

Victor  bowed  his  head.  Dusky  spaces  opened 
out  before  him.  The  power  to  move  seemed  lost ; 
he  could  only  stare  down  the  black,  endless  dis- 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  133 

tances,  and  listen  to  a  faint  sound,  like  the  drum 
of  a  bird  far  off  in  a  forest.  It  is  a  dream,  he 
thought.  A  sharp  pain  shook  him.  No,  it  is 
death,  the  after-thought  came  quivering.  Then 
he  was  there  again,  before  the  clock ;  a  star  was 
gone.  He  counted  them  once  more,  —  yes,  there 
were  only  six  upon  its  face ;  but  scarcely  one 
half-minute  had  passed  over  his  head,  and  in  the 
chair  beside  him  sat  Mr.  Rose,  smiling,  with  a 
small  flask  in  his  hand. 

"  I  have  done  my  part,"  he  said.  "  The  process 
is  performed,  and  here  I  give  you  the  result.  Use 
it  wisely." 

Victor  examined  the  flask.  It  contained  a  clear 
liquid,  faintly  tinged  with  rose-color. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mr.  Rose  smiled  again. 

"  You  may  call  it,  if  you  please,"  said  he,  "  the 
Tincture  of  Success." 

"  I  see,"  said  Victor,  smiling  back  at  him  ;  "  the 
Frenchman's  absinthe,  or  your  English  opium,  — 
a  draught  of  inspiration.  Your  health !  I  drink 
to  you." 

Mr.  Rose  caught  his  hand. 

"  Not  one  drop  of  it  !  "  he  cried.  "  Go 
home,  and  mix  that  with  your  ink.  To-morrow, 
take  your  pen  and  write,  without  undue  excite 
ment,  slowly,  thoughtfully,  laboriously,  as  most 
men  do." 

"  Is   that   all  ? "   Victor   asked  with   an   air   of 


134  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

disappointment.     The   royal   road,   then,  was   the 
turnpike  still. 

"  No,  when  the  ink  is  gone,  bring  the  flask 
to  be  filled  again.  Come  at  this  same  hour,  be 
tween  night  and  morning.  Remember,  silence. 
No  word  of  this  to  any  one.  Good-night !  Dis 
miss  all  fear  of  discouragement ;  that  time  is  past. 
For  you,  the  struggle  of  life  is  over." 

Victor  shivered.  These  parting  words  conveyed 
a  double  meaning.  But  he  had  made  his  choice, 
had  signed  the  compact ;  it  was  irrevocable.  That 
fear  too  must  be  dismissed,  if  possible. 

Weeks  went  by,  quietly  enough ;  but  before 
long,  he  felt  that  an  unaccountable  change  had 
come  over  him.  By  day  he  worked  at  the  bank 
with  a  feverish  lightness,  like  that  preceding  his 
arrested  act  of  suicide.  At  night  his  ink  flowed 
more  freely  than  of  old.  His  thoughts  came  thick 
and  fast ;  it  was  hard  to  hold  them  back,  to  write 
cautiously,  in  obedience  to  Mr.  Rose's  warning. 
His  first  manuscript,  sent  out  with  something  of 
his  former  distrust  and  hesitancy,  was  at  once 
accepted,  afterward,  in  print,  warmly  praised. 
Others  soon  followed  it ;  perceptibly  he  gained 
in  reputation.  At  the  end  of  six  months  when 
his  flask  had  been  filled  for  the  third  time,  he 
was  called  the  rising  young  author.  Then,  turn 
ing  his  back  upon  his  irksome  employment  in 
the  City,  he  trusted  wholly  to  his  pen,  and  to 
the  mysterious  influence  that  guided  it  ;  pro- 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  135 

duccd  his  first  important  work ;  was  known  to 
fame. 

The  subtle  process,  to  which  he  owed  so  much, 
varied  only  in  degree.  Always  the  same  chair 
awaited  him ;  always  he  whirled  away  into  the 
same  outer  darkness.  But  each  time,  while  the 
gloom  grew  vaster  and  more  oppressive,  the  dis 
tant  drumming  sound  came  nearer,  and  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  sharper  pain,  a  certainty  of  death 
more  imminent  and  more  appalling.  Always, 
when  he  woke,  another  star  had  disappeared  from 
the  clock-face.  Yet  always  no  appreciable  mo 
ment  had  been  wasted.  There  sat  his  generous 
host,  smiling  inscrutably,  watching  him  with  eyes 
he  could  not  sec,  bestowing  the  priceless  gift, 
then  curtly  dismissing  him,  reluctant  even  to 
accept  his  thanks.  Once  only  Victor  ventured 
to  prolong  his  visit,  to  describe  his  sensations,  to 
beg  for  some  word  of  explanation  ;  but  Mr.  Rose 
shook  his  head  mournfully,  laid  his  finger  upon 
his  lips,  and  Victor  knew  that  he  was  never  to 
know  more. 

Dick  Purkitt  had  been  the  first  to  congratulate 
him.  At  the  second  stage  of  progress  the  good 
fellow  threw  up  his  hat  and  cheered. 

"  I  always  knew  you  had  it  in  you,  dear  boy. 
Damn  it,  did  n't  I  tell  you  so  ?  Your  name  is 
Victor.  Keep  it  up  ;  keep  it  up  !  " 

And  then  when  Victor  left  the  garret  and  the 
bank,  moving  northward  and  westward  into  com- 


136  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

fortable  lodgings,  Dick  called  upon  him,  and  em 
braced  him  with  tears  of  joy  in  his  eyes.  Sud 
denly  he  stopped,  holding  the  rising  author  off 
at  arm's  length,  inspecting  him  in  his  critical 
way. 

"  I  say,  young-im,  what 's  the  matter  ?  You 
look  poorly.  Are  you  overworked  ?  What  is  it, 
man  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Victor. 

But  Dick  shook  his  head  uneasily.  Did  he 
sleep  ?  Did  he  eat  ?  Did  he  take  his  consti 
tutional  ?  Something  must  be  devilish  wrong. 
What  was  it? 

"  Nothing,"  Victor  insisted. 

Nothing ;  yes,  nothing  he  could  explain.  But 
there  was  something  devilish  wrong,  indeed,  —  a 
haunting  terror,  constant,  merciless,  indefinable, 
of  which  he  could  not  speak.  For  him  the  future 
had  become  the  present ;  the  sun  no  longer  shone. 
His  horizon-line  was  lost,  and  he  walked  in  twi 
light  on  the  verge  of  a  gulf  beset  with  shadows. 
The  nameless  dread  consumed  him  like  a  wasting 
disease.  He  hardly  knew  his  own  eyes  in  the 
glass  ;  they  had  a  restless,  hunted  look,  forever 
turning  backward  over  the  shoulder  which  Mr. 
Rose  had  grasped,  as  if  they  feared  an  encounter 
with  the  supernatural.  His  one  relief  was  in  his 
work ;  discovering  that,  he  gave  himself  up  to 
it  with  untiring  devotion.  Success  followed  hard 
upon  success ;  rich  rewards  lay  heaped  around 


TEE  TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  137 

him  ;  even  the  voice  of  petty  jealousy  was  hushed  ; 
and  as  the  note  of  triumph  swelled  louder  and 
deeper,  into  one  long,  harmonious  acclaim,  he 
resigned  love,  liberty,  everything  for  that,  accept 
ing  the  substitute  eagerly,  gratefully,  with  a  fierce, 
inhuman  joy.  For  this  he  had  given  the  death 
blow  to  his  own  happiness ;  but  he  knew  no 
remorse  and  no  repentance  ;  he  was  borne  on  in 
speechless  agony,  unflinching. 

One  day  there  came  a  letter  that  stirred  him. 
It  was  from  a  man  he  had  never  known,  once 
his  chosen  master,  —  Yarrow.  The  veteran  con 
queror  had  turned  hermit,  producing  little  of  late, 
fencing  himself  off  from  the  world.  So  it  hap 
pened  that  Victor  and  he  had  never  met.  The 
message  was  an  expression  of  his  delight  in  the 
fine  quality  of  the  younger  man's  work,  a  wish 
that  they  might  know  each  other.  He  was  ill, 
and,  therefore,  could  not  call  upon  Mr.  Hazard. 
Would  not  Mr.  Hazard  waive  ceremony,  and  come 
to  him  ?  Victor  did  so  immediately.  He  had 
long  desired  such  an  interview ;  it  was  now 
brought  about  in  the  best  possible  way,  giving 
promise  of  pleasure  to  them  both.  Instead  of 
that  it  proved  on  both  sides  extremely  painful. 
Victor  was  shown  through  a  splendid  house  into 
a  darkened  chamber,  where  the  sick  man  sat, 
propped  up  with  pillows,  tossing  and  turning 
restlessly.  As  he  came  forward  Yarrow's  look 
of  welcome  changed  to  one  of  deep  compassion. 


138  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  You,  too  —  "  he  murmured,  then  checked  him 
self,  and  offered  his  hand  in  silence. 

And  Victor  at  first  could  say  nothing.  Death 
was  written  in  the  face  ;  he  knew  the  lines  by  heart, 
—  he  had  learned  them  in  his  own.  They  talked 
awhile  in  broken  whispers,  each  struggling  for 
self-control.  It  was  useless  ;  the  open  secret  was 
there ;  they  could  neither  mention  nor  ignore  it. 
So  they  parted  as  they  had  met,  silently,  with 
blurred  eyes  and  trembling  lips,  their  sympathy 
expressed  only  in  a  lingering,  convulsive  clasp  of 
hands. 

A  few  hours  later  Victor  Hazard  paid  his  seventh 
and,  as  it  proved,  his  last  visit  to  Mr.  Rose.  The 
signs  for  the  moment  were  all  the  same.  He  lay 
in  the  dark,  bound  hand  and  foot ;  the  noise  began, 
the  deadly  pain  followed ;  but  now,  for  the  first 
time,  the  sound  defined  itself:  clearly,  it  could 
only  be  the  sharp,  continuous  rattle  of  hammers 
plied  by  dexterous  hands.  He  woke  with  a  start 
to  find  himself  alone,  holding  the  flask  once  more 
refilled.  But  the  clock  burned  dimly ;  not  a  single 
star  was  left  in  it ;  and  the  noise,  for  once,  did  not 
cease.  He  had  brought  it  back  with  him ;  it  was 
there  in  the  house,  echoing  around  him,  above, 
below,  at  his  very  feet.  He  called  his  host  by 
name.  No  one  answered ;  he  was,  indeed,  left 
quite  alone.  He  found  the  door  and  went  out 
into  the  work-shop.  There  stood  the  drawing- 
board  with  the  tools  lying  upon  it ;  another  object 


THE   TINCTURE   OF  SUCCESS.  139 

too  that  caught  his  eyes,  attracting  him,  —  a 
shining  strip  of  silver,  upon  which  had  been  en 
graved  two  dates,  a  name.  He  started,  turned 
faint,  and  clutched  the  table.  The  name  was 
Yarrow. 

He  waited  there  for  some  time  in  a  kind  of 
stupor,  fearing  to  move,  lest  at  a  step  he  should 
fall  insensible.  Meanwhile,  the  noise  went  on. 
He  could  not  endure  it ;  he  must  get  out  into  the 
air.  The  street  was  very  near,  the  staircase  short ; 
he  knew  his  way  perfectly.  With  a  painful  effort, 
he  dragged  himself  slowly  down,  supported,  as  he 
went,  by  the  partition-wall.  Ah !  The  noise  grew 
louder,  coming  from  the  shop  of  course.  What 
were  they  doing  there  ?  He  had  never  seen  the 
place  ;  it  had  been  black  and  silent  always.  What 
journeymen  were  busy  in  it  now,  at  such  an  hour, 
hammering,  hammering,  as  though  they  would 
wake  the  dead  ?  Here  was  the  street-door ;  the 
handle  turned,  the  fresh  air  revived  him.  Through 
the  barred  shutters  at  his  side  there  peeped  a  ray 
of  light.  Where  light  was,  he  could  see.  He  gave 
one  look,  only  one.  The  shop  was  an  undertaker's. 
The  men  were  driving  nails  into  a  coffin. 

He  recoiled,  shuddering.  Something  hurt  his 
hand.  It  was  only  his  precious  flask,  clinched  a 
shade  too  tightly.  He  flung  it  from  him  now 
with  all  his  might.  He  heard  the  glass  strike  the 
opposite  wall  and  shiver  into  fragments.  Then 
he  staggered  away,  muttering  incoherently,  losing 


140  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

himself  in  the  night-fog,  wandering  over  London ; 
but  somehow  bringing  himself  out  at  his  own  door, 
beating  at  it,  to  be  found  there  by  the  servants,  a 
stained  and  draggled  heap  upon  the  threshold  ;  to 
be  told  long  afterward,  that  at  this  very  moment 
the  mighty  presses  of  Fleet  Street,  —  as  they  rose 
and  fell  in  harsh,  metallic  rhythm,  to  note  the 
price  of  corn,  the  last  division  of  the  House,  all 
affairs  of  ball  men,  great  and  small  alike,  —  were 
stamping  out  with  iron  feet  the  life  and  death  of 
Yarrow. 

That  morning  Victor  Hazard  woke  delirious,  in 
a  raging  fever.  He  rallied,  sunk,  became  gradually 
weaker,  and  never  left  his  room  again.  Doctors 
consulted  over  his  case,  called  it  hard  names,  and 
shook  their  heads,  impotent  as  Belshazzar's  sooth 
sayers.  Through  it  all  his  old  friend,  Dick  Pur- 
kitt,  was  constant  at  his  bedside.  And  now  at 
last  Victor  returned  Dick's  friendship,  confided 
in  him,  even  to  that  unfinished  romance  of  early 
life,  —  the  broken  round  of  a  ladder  leading  to  the 
clouds.  But  one  secret  he  still  kept  back,  —  he 
never  spoke  of  Mr.  Rose ;  never  so  much  as  hinted 
at  the  Tincture  of  Success. 

One  day  Dick  found  him  lying  there  with  a 
sealed  package  in  his  hand,  looking  at  it  doubtfully, 
turning  it  about  with  thin,  nervous  fingers. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  Dick  asked. 

Victor  held  it  up,  showing  the  address  of  a 
certain  Miss  Ashburnham  in  New  York.  Under- 


THE   TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  141 

neath  he  had  written,  "  After  my  death  to  be 
delivered." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Dick,  "  now  I  understand." 

«  Understand  ?     What  ?  " 

Then  he  was  told  that  often  in  his  delirium  he 
had  worried  about  some  letters,  undoubtedly  these, 
that  were  sometimes  to  be  burned,  sometimes  sent 
off  by  the  next  post. 

"  Yes,"  said  Victor, "  her  letters.  I  have  always 
kept  them  so.  Burn  the  package,  Dick.  I  added 
a  line  of  my  own,  long  ago ;  to  receive  it  now 
might  give  her  pain." 

"  Let  her  have  it,"  Dick  replied.  "  She  deserves 
to  suffer,  but  she  won't.  You  can't  hurt  her  as 
she  hurt  you.  Send  it  along." 

"  No ;  we  will  burn  them." 

And  they  were  burned,  unopened. 

It  had  now  become  apparent  that  Victor  could 
not  live  through  the  week.  Three  days  later  he 
showed  Dick  another  letter,  just  received,  from 
Miss  Ashburnham. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  and  its  real  significance  lay 
all  between  the  lines.  She  had  followed  his  work, 
had  always  admired  it.  She  knew  he  was  ill,  but 
not  seriously,  she  hoped  and  believed.  He  must 
surely  be  destined  to  a  long  and  happy  life.  Then, 
referring  to  the  past,  she  confessed  that  she  had 
been  much  to  blame.  Would  he  not  forget  the 
wrong  she  had  done  him  ?  Would  he  not  send  her 
a  line  to  say  she  was  forgiven  ? 


142  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

Without  a  written  word  of  love,  the  letter  invited 
a  declaration  in  every  syllable.  "  She  thinks  it 
worth  while,  now,  blast  her ! "  Dick  remarked  to 
himself.  Like  most  bachelors  of  forty-five  he  had 
his  own  private  views  of  woman's  gentle  nature ; 
but  he  waited  to  see  what  would  come  of  it,  ex 
erting  no  undue  influence.  Victor  called  for  a 
pen  that  only  scrawled  illegibly  and  slipped  from 
his  hand. 

"  Let  me  write,"  said  Dick. 

Victor  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  I  will  not  answer  it.  I  have  outgrown  all 
that.  Even  if  I  lived,  I  could  never  love  her,  —  never 
any  woman.  Burn  it,  Dick,  as  we  burned  the  others." 

He  looked  idly  at  the  flame,  while  Purkitt  stirred 
it  with  fiendish  satisfaction ;  then  he  dozed  away. 
Dick  sat  by  and  watched  him.  An  hour  after  he 
woke. 

"  Dick,"  he  asked  in  a  hoarse,  labored  whisper, 
"  how  long  have  I  been  at  it  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Victor  ?    At  what  ? " 

"Success,"  he  answered  feebly,  —  "success,  I 
mean." 

"  Not  quite  three  years,  old  man." 

"All  that?  Nearer,  Dick,  nearer ;  I  can't  speak 
up.  Tell  me,  is  it  real,  —  will  it  last, — will  my 
work  live  ? " 

"  Surely,  dear  boy,  surely.  It  is  great.  On  my 
soul,  I  believe  so,"  said  Dick,  struggling  to  keep 
down  the  tears. 


THE  TINCTURE  OF  SUCCESS.  143 

A  smile  stole  over  Victor's  face,  and  he  slept 
awhile  longer  peacefully.  Then  he  woke  for  the 
last  time,  starting  up  in  bed,  wandering. 

"  Dick  !  "  he  cried,  tugging  at  his  shirt,  as  though 
something  stifled  him.  "  Dick !  I  put  my  heart 
into  it.  See !  " 

He  fell  back,  with  the  shirt  torn  open,  revealing 
seven  star-shaped  scars  upon  his  breast,  above  the 
heart  already  stilled.  Dick  saw  and  wondered  at 
them.  He  never  knew  that  they  were  the  seven 
stars  of  Man's  Destiny,  the  mystic  symbols  of  the 
Rosicrucian  brotherhood,  and  that  through  them, 
drop  by  drop,  the  first  ingredient  in  the  Tincture 
of  Success  had  been  drained  away. 


THE   ROCK  OF  BERANGER. 

I  WAS  still  a  young  man  ('t  is  twenty  years  since 
then)  when  I  first  made  the  journey  into  Switz 
erland.  And  I  paraded  a  fine  festival-flower  of  en 
thusiasm,  which  ought  to  have  been  immensely 
gratifying  to  the  jaded  senses  of  older  travellers, 
but  which  my  one  companion  did  his  very  best  to 
blight,  —  with  no  success  whatever.  We  were 
thrown  into  the  close  intimacy  of  travel  for  little 
more  than  a  fortnight,  and  we  never  have  jour 
neyed  together  again.  But  this  is  due  rather  to 
the  sundering  force  of  outward  circumstances  than 
to  our  peculiar  dissimilarity  of  sentiment,  remark 
able  as  that  undeniably  was.  When  we  meet  at 
rare  intervals,  we  still  smile  over  some  half-for 
gotten  incident  of  that  memorable  comradeship,  — 
we  have  so  little  else  in  common  to  smile  over. 
For  he  is  gruff  and  grizzled ;  his  oldest  child  is  in 
society,  and  of  all  but  her  he  is  now  more  ruth 
lessly  critical  than  ever.  He  has  his  wife  to  ko-tow 
before  him,  ugly  old  Chinese  curio  that  he  is ! 
while  I  — 

It  was  at  a  crowded  table  d'hote  in  Geneva  that 
fate,  one  August  night,  allotted  me  a  chair  next  to 


THE  ROCK  OF  BE  RANGER.  145 

Hans  Worden,  whom  I  took  for  a  German  at  first,  — 
not  on  account  of  his  name,  which  I  did  not  know. 
He  has,  in  fact,  a  drop  or  two  of  Dutch  blood  in 
his  veins,  but  is  as  thorough-paced  an  American  as 
any  ever  shod,  and  this  I  soon  discovered.  I  saw 
too  that  he  was  broad-shouldered  and  bald,  with  a 
spike  of  hair  upon  his  forehead ;  that  he  wore  a 
stiff  yellow  beard  and  moustache,  clipped  into 
bristles ;  that  he  must  be  at  least  ten  years  my 
senior,  and  must  measure  considerably  less  than 
two  yards  in  height,  but  almost  all  of  that  in  the 
girth.  His  answers  were  short  and  somewhat  too 
direct.  Though  we  were  alone  in  a  crowd,  and  I 
Avas  lonely,  I  did  not  care  for  him.  But  when  I, 
by  an  awkward  accident,  projected  half  my  pint  of 
vieux  Macon  into  his  portion  of  the  raie  au  beurre 
noir,  he  was  unexpectedly  civil  about  this  trying 
circumstance,  which  he  certainly  could  not  have 
foreseen.  On  that  account  I  felt  bound  to  him  by 
a  tie  of  gratitude,  and  accordingly  tried  to  say  as 
little  as  I  could,  and  to  say  it  in  his  way.  This 
flattered  him,  perhaps,  for  he  began  to  do  his  share 
of  the  talking,  and  when  dinner  was  over  he  in 
vited  me  to  take  coffee  and  fine  champagne  with 
him  upon  the  terrace.  There,  continuing  our  talk, 
we  found  that  we  had  friends  in  common  at  home, 
that  we  were  still  alone  in  the  crowd,  that  we  were 
going  the  same  way  on  the  morrow.  The  twilight 
grew  murky  round  our  ears,  the  lighthouse  flashed 
out  upon  the  jetty ;  the  lake  lapped  the  shore 

10 


146  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

gently ;  under  the  wall  a  wandering  Savoyard 
struck  up  a  plaintive  love-song;  and  in  the  dark 
we  exchanged  the  cigar  of  peace  and  became  fellow- 
travellers. 

The  next  day,  which  seemed  interminable,  we 
took  the  steamer  for  Chillon.  I  was  oppressively 
conscious  of  myself,  all  the  time  on  guard  against 
the  possibility  of  boring  my  new  acquaintance ;  to 
do  that  would  not  be  difficult,  I  felt.  He  did  not 
bore  me,  but  he  hampered  me  by  his  indifference 
to  the  cool  northwesterly  breeze,  the  sunshine,  the 
glistening  water.  I  could  not  get  accustomed  to 
his  presence ;  he  was  constantly  on  my  mind,  and 
yet  I  was  lonelier  than  I  should  have  been  without 
him.  I  did  not  demand  exciting  incidents  ;  I  found 
room  for  diversion  in  the  mere  sight  of  these  new 
shores.  But  here,  at  my  back,  hung  my  Old  Man 
of  this  inland  Sea,  who  would  neither  divert  him 
self  nor  let  me  be  diverted. 

At  Chillon  I  let  myself  go,  and  enjoyed  things  in 
my  own  way,  which  was  not  at  all  like  his ;  but 
he  was  not  bored,  and  seeing  this  I  took  heart  and 
found  his  attitude  amusing.  The  oubliettes  and 
cells  of  the  condemned  he  inspected  gravely,  but 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  A  certain  torture- 
post,  that  bore  marks  of  heated  iron,  looked,  he 
said,  as  if  it  had  been  freshly  roasted  over  night 
for  our  especial  benefit ;  and  this  I  could  not  deny. 
Concerning  Bonnivard  he  was  reticent  and  scepti 
cal,  but  two  or  three  of  the  famous  names  carved 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  147 

in  the  dungeon  pillar  he  read  aloud  with  a  faint 
show  of  interest.  Just  above  Lord  Byron's,  one  of 
our  own  nation,  a  female  sculptor,  or,  as  she  would 
say,  a  sculptress,  had  recorded  herself  in  letters  an 
inch  long.  The  name,  newly  cut,  had  not  hard 
ened  in  the  limestone,  and  with  the  stick  he  car 
ried  Worden  quietly  obliterated  it.  One  swift 
stroke  of  the  ferule,  and  it  was  gone.  Here,  for 
the  first  time,  we  were  in  perfect  sympathy.  From 
that  moment  I  knew  we  should  get  on. 

And  so  we  did  admirably.  Worden  took  the  lead 
and  made  the  pace,  while  I  followed,  frequently 
out  of  step,  but  always  within  hailing  distance. 
That  night  we  passed  in  Vevey  at  the  famous  hos 
telry  of  the  Three  Crowns,  well  termed  grandiose 
by  the  fluent  author  of  the  guide-book.  This 
straightforward  work,  by  the  way,  was  Worden's 
pet  aversion,  —  the  scarlet  of  its  covers  made  his 
eyes  flash  fire  like  a  bull's  ;  in  vain  I  protested  that 
much  wisdom  lay  between  them,  and  that  we  were 
ignorant.  I  might  keep  it  by  me,  he  said,  might 
even  quote  from  it,  if  I  chose,  —  he  could  not  pre 
vent  that ;  but  it  must  never  be  flaunted  about  in 
his  presence.  We  were  not  tourists,  "  doing  "  things 
from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty ;  we  were  moving 
this  way  and  the  other  way,  as  our  souls  incited  us, 
for  pleasure  only ;  God  willing,  without  formulas. 

For  our  pleasure,  therefore,  we  descended  at  the 
Three  Crowns ;  walked  out  toward  a  glowing  sun 
set,  and  turning,  saw  its  colors  die  away  in  the 


148  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

distant  peak  of  the  Dent  du  Midi ;  while  just  across 
the  lake,  from  behind  the  crags  of  Meillerie,  a 
storm-cloud  raised  its  head,  glaring  and  growling 
fitfully  like  some  monstrous  chimera  of  the  moun 
tains.  Then  the  unexpected  happened,  and  we 
encountered  a  wonderful  Russian  princess  of  lit 
erary  tendencies,  who  greeted  Worden  heartily. 
"What!  Not  married  yet?"  she  inquired.  And 
upon  his  answer  in  the  negative,  we  were  given  the 
freedom  of  her  salon,  a  marvel  of  barbaric  luxury, 
overhanging  the  lake,  where  we  took  coffee  and 
liqueurs,  and  smoked,  all  three  ;  while  she  told  tales 
of  obvious  point  in  many  languages,  and  deplored 
our  early  departure. 

"  I  came  here  for  a  month,"  she  said,  "  and  lo,  I 
have  stayed  three  years.  There  is  no  place  like  it 
in  all  Europe.  But  to-morrow  you  will  leave  me." 
And  when  we  assured  her  that  our  one  desire  was 
to  be  always  there  with  her,  but  that  —  she  sighed, 
and  said  all  men  were  of  the  brutes  and  cruel. 
One  might  have  done  worse  than  to  accept  her 
lotus-branch  thus  invitingly  extended  ;  but  as  Wor 
den  remarked  afterward,  one  usually  does  worse, 
somehow,  on  this  side  of  the  planet. 

"  What !  Not  married  yet  ?  "  The  woman  of 
the  world  had  asked  it  with  a  note  of  intention 
that  kept  recurring  to  me.  Did  he  want  to  marry, 
then?  Was  that  the  clew  to  his  incapacity  for 
enjoyment,  his  pre-occupation,  his  feverish  desire 
to  push  on  —  for  pleasure  —  to  see  all,  and  think 


THE  ROCK   OF  BERANGER.  149 

of  nothing  ?  Pleasure,  indeed  !  Could  he  see  any 
thing  as  I  saw  it  ?  Could  he  dismiss  from  his 
mind  the  thought  I  did  not  know  ?  Was  he  not 
really  blind  with  some  old  pain,  and  brooding 
always  upon  that  ?  The  fancy  stole  into  my  brain 
and  would  not  out  of  it.  Habet!  The  princess 
knew  what  she  was  talking  about.  A  woman  has 
jilted  him  ;  he  is  trying  to  forget  her. 

His  face  and  figure  had  a  wofully  comic  cast  in 
them.  He  was  not  the  man  to  command  affection 
at  a  moment's  notice ;  not  at  all  the  kind  of  lover 
that  I,  for  instance,  would  make  if  my  time  ever 
came.  But  in  spite  of  that,  perhaps  because  of 
it,  my  interest  in  him  deepened  wonderfully.  The 
quenchless  spirit  of  opposition,  that  I  laughed  at, 
became  charged  with  pathos  now.  I  understood 
his  imperfect  sympathy  with  the  landscape,  his 
contempt  for  the  beautiful,  even  among  women,  — 
all  of  whom  he  affected  to  regard  as  of  a  race  apart, 
inferior  to  our  own.  Evidently  this  was  a  case  of 
acute  mental  strabismus,  —  his  mind's  eye,  turning 
inward  and  not  outward,  caught  but  a  poor  half- 
light,  distorting  everything. 

Constant  and  severe  as  his  pangs  must  have  been, 
they  were  not  permitted  to  impair  his  appetite. 
We  put  up,  accordingly,  for  our  next  mid-day  meal 
at  the  queer  old  town  of  Saint  Maurice,  in  the 
Rhone  valley,  where,  after  our  first  word  or  two, 
the  smiling  peasant-maiden  of  the  inn  treated  us 
with  great  deference,  yet  with  unaccountable  famil- 


150  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

iarity.  Never  was  a  simple  second  breakfast  served 
with  such  circumstance,  with  such  chattering  about 
each  dish  as  it  was  set  down. 

"For  whom  does  she  take  us?"  I  asked.  "I 
told  her  in  my  best  accents  that  we  were  voyaging 
to  Chamouni  from  the  Three  Crowns." 

"For  princes  of  the  blood,  perhaps,"  said  Wor- 
den.  "  Eat  your  gruyere  with  a  good  conscience. 
If  need  be,  I  will  assume  the  role." 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  to  us  entered  the 
landlord,  carrying  a  bottle  of  choice  wine,  which  he 
pressed  upon  our  acceptance.  Without  knowing 
why,  we  were  forced  to  drink  his  health,  and  with 
much  bowing  and  scraping  he  pledged  us,  in  return, 
enduring  prosperity. 

"  And  since  it  appears,"  he  added,  "  that  these 
gentlemen  travel  onward  in  the  service  of  the 
Three  Crowns  —  "  Thereupon,  drawing  from  his 
pocket  a  handful  of  the  hotel  cards,  he  begged  the 
gentlemen  to  honor  him  by  distributing  these  in 
his  favor  along  their  road. 

My  lips  parted  for  a  shout  of  derision,  but  Wor- 
den  silenced  me  with  a  look.  Quietly  accepting  the 
situation  and  the  cards  likewise,  he  told  our  host 
that  we  would  do  all  in  our  power  to  oblige  him. 
The  sharp-eyed  Switzer  fairly  beamed ;  he  had 
known  intuitively  that  we  were  men  of  much  dis 
tinction  ;  but  when  informed  by  his  servant  that 
the  first  and  second  butler  of  the  famous  Three 
Crowns  chose  to  sustain  themselves  awhile  with 


THE  ROCK  OF  BE  RANGER.  151 

him  in  a  course  of  recreation,  he  had  felt  that  his 
best  would  be  all  too  poor  and  crude  for  palates  of 
such  refinement ;  and  he  prayed  our  indulgence, 
since  he  was  thus  taken  unawares.  Of  course  the 
stupid  girl  had  either  misinterpreted  my  statement 
or  had  wilfully  embellished  it.  And  here  stood 
Worden  nodding  assent  to  all  this  with  the  utmost 
tranquillity.  I  could  not  control  my  features,  and 
left  the  room  abruptly  for  space  to  laugh  in. 

Upon  the  rough  pavement  before  the  door  lay 
stretched  a  huge  dog  of  Saint  Bernard,  snapping  at 
the  flies,  and  round  the  corner  of  the  house  I  saw 
our  coachman  and  another  of  his  class  consorting 
with  the  foolish,  tittering  maid  ;  otherwise  the  street 
was  vacant.  Absurdly  narrow  and  primitive,  it 
was,  nevertheless,  the  main  thoroughfare  of  the 
town.  Halfway  down  the  opposite  side  a  rival 
hotel  displayed  its  sign  of  blue  and  gold.  "  We 
should  have  gone  there,"  I  thought ;  "  it  is  the 
better  house  of  the  two."  The  guide-book,  to  which 
I  now  tardily  referred,  confirmed  me  in  this  im 
pression.  Just  then  the  little  group  of  Swiss  broke 
up,  the  strange  man  lounging  off  to  the  stable-yard 
of  the  other  establishment,  out  of  which  he  pres 
ently  reappeared,  this  time  on  the  box  of  a  well- 
appointed  travelling-carriage  that  drew  up  at  the 
opposite  door.  Wraps  were  stored  away  in  front, 
trunks  were  strapped  behind ;  a  handsome  old 
fellow  with  gray  hair  took  his  place  upon  the  back 
seat;  the  bustle  subsided,  the  street  was  still  again; 


152  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

but  the  old  man  waited  on,  impatiently  glancing  up 
at  one  of  the  windows. 

"  Yes,  Papa,  I  am  coming,"  called  down  to  him 
in  English  a  silvery  voice.  And  in  a  moment 
more  the  daughter  came.  The  coachman  shouted, 
cracked  his  whip ;  the  horses  tossed  their  heads  as 
they  dashed  by  me.  All  were  gone  in  a  flash  along 
the  road  we  had  just  passed  over,  not  the  one  we 
were  to  follow.  The  merest  glimpse  was  allowed 
me  of  a  pretty  face  half-veiled,  a  pair  of  brown  eyes 
bent  on  me  coquettishly,  as  I  could  not  help  believ 
ing  ;  but  that  glimpse  I  caught. 

"  Atrocious  chance  !  "  I  muttered.  "  If  we  had 
gone  to  the  other  house ;  if  they  had  only  turned 
our  way ! " 

Worden  now  appeared,  with  the  jovial  landlord 
still  in  attendance  to  speed  our  departure  by  strong 
injunctions  to  the  driver  for  our  safe-conduct  and 
by  renewed  expressions  of  good  will  toward  us. 

"  Did  you  undeceive  him  ? "  I  asked  when  we 
also  were  well  out  of  the  town,  but  in  the  wrong 
direction. 

"  No,"  said  Worden.  "  Why  spoil  the  joke,  and 
make  the  worthy  man  uncomfortable  ?  He  actually 
declined,  at  first,  to  give  me  a  bill  for  our  break 
fast.  But  I  told  him  it  was  not  our  habit  to  de 
mand  such  favors.  Why  did  you  take  yourself 
off?" 

"  For  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  Monsieur  the  Butler- 
in-chief,"  I  answered.  Looking  back  down  the 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  153 

valley  as  I  spoke,  I  caught  sight  of  the  other  car 
riage  afar  off,  a  mere  speck  upon  the  Villeneuve 
road.  "  And  after  the  eyes  I  flung  my  heart ;  see, 
it  is  there." 

Then  I  informed  him  in  a  word  that  we  should 
have  gone  to  the  other  hotel,  and  why.  But  he 
congratulated  himself  upon  our  fortunate  escape. 

"  Some  school-girl  in  vacation,"  he  continued. 
"A  bundle  of  American  nerves,  as  your  description 
proves,  —  given  to  sheep's-eyes  and  hysterics.  Bah! 
Did  you  notice  the  young  person  who  waited  upon 
us  just  now  at  the  inn  ?  Admirably  robust." 

That  afternoon  he  did  amiably  enough  all  that 
was  expected  of  him,  alighting  for  a  nearer  view  of 
the  lovely  waterfall  with  an  unspeakable  name, 
and  in  the  Gorge  du  Trient  following  up  the 
wooden  gallery  to  its  very  end.  At  both  places  he 
amused  himself  by  sticking  his  hotel  cards  into 
every  crevice  of  rock  he  could  find. 

"  To  whom  it  may  concern,"  he  explained.  "  Was 
I  not  asked  to  distribute  them  along  the  road  ? " 

Then  observing  the  look  of  satisfaction  on  the 
face  of  the  coachman,  who  posed  as  our  guide  to 
all  the  wonders  of  the  wayside,  Worden  added,  — 

"  The  end  is  not  yet.  We  shall  reap  our  reward 
for  this,  as  you  will  see." 

Oddly  enough,  we  did  so  almost  immediately. 
For  upon  arriving  at  Martigny  we  found  the  hotel 
crowded  to  overflowing.  It  appeared  for  a  mo 
ment  as  if  we  must  sleep  under  the  stars.  But  the 


154  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

coachman  whispered  to  the  portier,  the  portier  to 
the  chef  de  bureau  ;  and  behold,  we  obtained  a  gem 
of  a  salon  with  two  alcoves,  upon  the  main  floor 
fronting  the  prospect. 

"  We  are  powers  in  the  land ! "  cried  Worden, 
the  deceiver.  "  I  have  mastered  the  art  of  European 
travel.  I  am  a  butler  evermore." 

"  A  false  position  may  have  its  inconveniences," 
I  suggested. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  he  retorted.  "  I  tell  you 
we  are  kings  ! " 

That  night  our  coachman,  Victor,  who  knew  the 
mountains,  begged  for  the  privilege  of  guiding  us 
across  them.  We  could  ride  the  horses,  he  said ; 
and  for  the  luggage,  there  was  the  sweetest  of  joy 
ous  little  mules,  eager  for  employment,  to  be  had 
for  a  song.  Of  course  we  closed  with  him  at  once. 

"  There,  you  see,"  said  Worden ;  "  we  carry  all 
before  us,  —  even  to  the  mules." 

I  could  only  hope  meekly  that  good  would  come 
of  it.  So  wre  got  up  with  the  sun,  and  went  on,  bag 
and  baggage,  horse  and  mule  and  foot,  over  the  pass 
of  the  Tete-Noire,  —  a  route  "  common-hackneyed 
in  the  eyes  of  men,"  as  my  companion  took  great 
pains  to  tell  me.  But  what  of  that  ?  I  had  not 
seen  it,  nor  had  he.  Was  ever  cynic  argument  so 
weak  ?  Must  we  give  up  the  Rhine,  then,  because 
poets  for  ages  have  loved  to  call  it  blue,  when  it 
wears,  in  fact,  the  yellowish-green  hues  of  jade  ? 
Has  the  photograph  solved  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx  ; 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  155 

and  is  she,  from  over-scrutiny,  no  more  inscrutable  ? 
Shall  we  hunt  for  new  sensations  in  the  heart  of 
Ethiopia  and  the  squalid  suburbs  of  great  cities  ? 
No,  thank  Heaven !  The  Old  World's  face  is  not 
worn  out  so  easily  by  vulgar  eyes.  The  Tete-Noire 
was  my  first  mountain-pass,  and  it  will  always  be  my 
best  one.  The  view  of  the  winding  Rhone  from  the 
height  of  the  Forclaz  still  remains  to  me  a  marvel ; 
and  the  dark  wilderness  of  fir-trees  along  the  sharp 
descent  to  the  hidden  torrent  of  the  Eau  Noire 
overshadows  my  remembrance,  as  though  it  were 
the  selva  oscura  of  the  "  Inferno."  Great  sheets 
of  mist  enveloped  us  there  that  day.  The  wind 
howled,  the  rain  beat  down ;  but,  save  only  the 
mule  who  was  no  longer  joyous,  we  jogged  on 
merrily. 

"  Behold  ! "  cried  Victor,  pointing  with  his  staff 
to  a  boundary-stone  by  the  roadside  ;  "  La  France  !  " 
And  out  of  a  chest  of  appalling  depth  he  intoned 
the  Marseillaise.  So  with  a  song  on  our  lips  we 
came  down  into  Savoy ;  and  all  around  us,  but  in 
visible  through  the  driving  mist,  lay  the  vale  of 
Chamouni. 

Suddenly,  high  above  me,  on  my  left,  the  nearer 
clouds  parted  for  an  instant  and  disclosed  an 
enormous  mass  of  heaped-up  crystals,  pale-blue  in 
color,  towering  into  space  and  ending  there  ab 
ruptly,  like  the  broken  arch  of  a  rainbow.  I  could 
not  trust  my  eyes,  and  thought  the  light  had 
played  some  trick  upon  them. 


156  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Look  there  ! "  I  called  to  Victor.  "  Do  you  see 
that  ?  " 

"  Does  not  Monsieur  know  ? "  he  answered  calmly. 
"  It  is  the  glacier  of  Argcntiere." 

The  fog  swept  back,  and  it  was  gone.  It  had 
seemed  as  far  removed  from  earth  as  the  summer- 
cloud  that  melts  before  one's  eyes  never  to  re- 
assume  its  former  shape,  unreal  as  a  vision.  I  was 
convinced  that  I  should  never  find  that  light  again 
in  Argentiere  or  any  other  glacier.  And,  indeed, 
none  has  ever  looked  to  me  as  that  did  then. 

Night  overtook  us  ;  the  storm  grew  fiercer.  We 
could  hardly  see  our  horses'  heads ;  we  were  soaked 
to  the  skin.  But  the  village  lights  shone  larger  and 
brighter,  and  before  long  we  plunged  in  among 
them,  found  our  hotel,  and  steamed  before  a  roaring 
fire.  The  old  comedy  of  whispers  went  on  between 
Victor  and  our  last  new  landlord,  who  immediately 
transferred  us  to  luxurious  quarters  befitting  the 
state  we  had  again  tacitly  assumed.  Worden's  eyes 
twinkled  as  he  pulled  from  his  pocket  various  cling 
ing  masses  of  wet  pasteboard,  reduced  almost  to 
their  original  pulp  by  the  penetrating  rain. 

"  May  Saint  Boniface,  patron  of  hotels,  grant  me 
his  forgiveness  !  I  quite  forgot  them." 

"  You  did  your  duty  by 'them  yesterday,  Heaven 
knows,"  said  I. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  returned.  "  These  were 
given  to  me  this  morning.  They  are  the  hotel 
cards  of  Martigny." 


THE  ROCK   OF  BERANGER.  157 

"  Then  I,  for  one,  will  wear  a  wine-label  no 
longer.  I  shall  go  down  immediately  and  disclose 
the  whole  fraudulent  business  to  the  gentlemanly 
proprietor." 

"  And  lose  these  rooms  !  "  cried  Worden,  catch 
ing  me  by  the  arm.  "  Are  you  mad  ?  Leave 
everything  to  me.  I  '11  discuss  all  the  vintages  of 
the  country  with  them,  if  necessary.  Hold  your 
tongue,  and  let  the  innocent  fraud  go  on.  It  hurts 
nobody  ;  besides  I  like  it." 

He  had  his  way.  Nothing  was  said,  and  we 
remained  marked  men  and  honored. 

The  next  sun  came  blazing  up  into  a  cloudless 
sky,  rousing  me  at  an  early  hour  and  drawing  me 
out  upon  the  balcony,  while  I  was  still  clothed  in 
picturesqueness.  With  the  silent  wonder  of  youth 
I  beheld  the  narrow,  level  meadows  and  the  brawl 
ing  Arve,  the  great  brown  crags  rising  abruptly 
on  either  side  through  their  green  fringes  to  snow- 
fields  of  dazzling  whiteness,  leading  up  at  last  to 
one  clear  summit  whiter  than  them  all.  I  needed 
no  guide  to  tell  me  which  among  these  peaks  was 
royal.  There  he  sat  with  his  guards  around  him, 
high  on  his  immutable  throne,  splendid  as  a  god. 
I  had  slept  for  hours  at  his  feet  in  the  darkness  of 
ignorance.  Now  I  knew  all  upon  the  instant,  as  if 
at  the  touch  of  an  enchanter's  wand. 

I  went  along  the  balcony  and  startled  Worden 
out  of  a  sound  sleep.  Just  as  he  was,  I  dragged 
him  to  the  window. 


158  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  he  said,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"  The  Mont  Blanc  !  "  I  stammered. 

He  yawned  audibly.  "  Disappointing,  is  n't  it  ? 
I  have  seen  more  snow  than  that  in  Madison 
Square." 

"  Good-by,"  I  said,  making  for  the  balcony.  "  I 
give  you  up." 

"  Wait  a  bit.     What  time  is  it  ? " 

"  Seven  o'clock." 

"  Why  on  earth  did  you  wake  me  ?  I  was  hav 
ing  such  a  superior  dream ;  I  shall  never  know  the 
end  of  it  now.  No  matter ;  coffee  with  you  in  just 
two  hours."  And  he  went  to  bed  again. 

What  could  be  done  with  such  dull  eyes  as  these  ? 
Nothing,  I  concluded,  but  religiously  to  let  them 
alone.  The  scheme  worked  to  perfection.  Upon 
coming  in  that  morning  from  my  first  solitary 
stroll,  I  found  Worden  pacing  his  room  furiously. 
Where  had  I  been  ?  Why  had  I  crawled  off  by 
myself  ?  If  there  was  anything  to  see,  he  wanted 
to  see  it.  For  what  else  had  I  brought  him  ?  I 
aped  humility,  proposing  that  we  should  take  shares 
forthwith  in  one  of  the  village  guides,  and  explore 
the  neighborhood  exhaustively  and  systematically. 
There  fell  to  our  lot,  as  it  happened,  a  friend  of 
Victor,  who  on  departing  that  day  for  his  native 
pastures  assured  us  that  we  should  find  the  guide 
Franz  a  good  comrade,  very  sure  of  foot ;  and  so 
he  proved.  I  caught  a  sharp  attack  of  the  climbing 
fever,  which  communicated  itself  in  a  milder  form 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  159 

to  Worden;  though  I  could  not  help  suspecting 
that  his  interest,  such  as  it  was,  in  our  daily  life 
arose  less  from  my  influence  than  from  the  con 
tents  of  a  certain  telegraphic  message  that  came  to 
him,  as  it  were,  out  of  a  clear  sky.  What  infor 
mation  it  gave  I  had  no  means  of  knowing,  but  I 
could  see  that  it  was  of  a  soothing  nature. 

As  it  now  appeared,  that  he  desired  to  go  where 
I  went,  he  wras  dragged  up  the  Fldgere  and  down 
the  BreVent ;  over  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  under  it 
to  the  crypt-like  source  of  the  Arveiron ;  through 
half  the  long  list  of  courses  ordinaires,  —  treating 
everything  lightly,,  turning  all  he  could  into  ridi 
cule  ;  and  if  nothing  was  left  him  but  to  admire,  un 
demonstrative.  When  I  asked  why  feelings  were 
given  him  never  to  be  expressed,  he  replied  that 
since  I  expressed  mine  so  well,  competition  would 
be  useless  ;  it  seemed  to  him,  sometimes,  that  I 
had  feelings  enough  for  two.  And  with  this  shaft 
of  sarcasm  I  was  for  the  time  silenced,  if  not 
convinced. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  him  perched  on  the  wiry 
apex  of  a  mule,  following  my  lead  now,  up  many  a 
zigzag  bridle-path,  along  the  verge  of  many  a  pre 
cipice  ;  always  imperturbable,  even  when  the  beast 
who  bore  him  craned  its  neck  toward  some  scrubby 
thistle-blossom  a  yard  or  two  down  the  awful  gulf. 
He  consented,  though  reluctantly,  to  have  his  shoes 
spiked  when  I  inclined  to  glaciers.  But  upon  one 
point  neither  I  nor  Franz  could  shake  his  strong 


160  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

opinion.  He  pronounced  the  common  mountain- 
staff,  or  alpenstock,  tipped  with  goat-horn  and 
smoothly  rounded  to  the  hand,  a  foolish  and  de 
testable  encumbrance, —  chiefly,  I  think,  because  cus 
tom  makes  it  also  an  Alpine  souvenir,  by  branding 
it  with  names  and  other  data  in  a  decorative  spiral. 
Every  village  cobbler  has  his  set  of  iron  type  ready 
for  heating  and  stamping  at  a  small  fee.  In  Cha- 
mouni  our  windows  commanded  that  functionary's 
little  shop,  and  the  line  of  tourists  constantly 
closing  in  at  his  door  to  have  their  exploits  indeli 
bly  recorded.  This  exhibition  of  innocent  weakness 
always  stirred  Worden  to  wrath. 

"  A  melancholy  sight !  "  he  said  once.  "  The 
world  depresses  me  hourly  more  and  more.  Look 
at  that  string  of  people,  —  every  mother's  son  and 
daughter  in  it  a  fool,  if  not  a  liar !  For,  of  course, 
all  the  feats  in  Switzerland,  whether  performed  or 
not,  are  duly  chronicled  ;  and  each  stick  that  comes 
goes  home  with  'Aiguille  Verte'  burned  into  it,  or 
I  'm  a  Dutchman  !  " 

"  The  Aiguille  Verte  is  inaccessible,"  I  ventured 
to  remonstrate. 

"  But  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  are  not,  my  boy. 
They  may  be  bought  for  one  centime  apiece,  as  I 
am  informed ;  and  that  wretched  shoemaker  will 
die  a  millionnaire  through  the  folly  of  your  coun 
trymen." 

"  Let  the  ill  wind  blow  him  good,"  said  I.  "  It 
does  no  harm  to  you." 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  161 

"  Yes  ;  it  does.  It  strokes  me  the  wrong  way ;  it 
ruffles  my  sweet  temper.  See  that  sexless  thing 
with  a  veil  around  its  head.  Is  it  a  man  or 
a  woman  ?  Neither ;  it 's  an  American  tourist, 
personally  conducted.  Pah !  Let  us  do  the 
Aiguille  Verte  to-morrow,  if  only  to  escape  from 
such  monstrosities." 

The  morrow  for  that  rash  attempt  never  came, 
though  we  prolonged  our  stay  in  Chamouni,  —  on 
the  whole,  no  worse  a  place  than  any  other,  Wor- 
dcn  said  ;  but  this  admission,  be  it  noted,  was 
made  after  the  receipt  of  a  second  mysterious  tele 
gram.  We  had  been  there  ten  days  before  I  was  left 
alone  again.  All  that  morning  rain  had  threatened; 
the  afternoon  promised  to  be  clear,  and  I  therefore 
suggested  a  climb  along  the  Glacier  des  Bossons  to 
its  attendant  cascade.  Wordcn  said  he  was  sleepy, 
and  would  rather  dream  about  it ;  but  I  must  go, 
that  he  might  know  the  place  through  my  emotions 
afterward.  I  consequently  set  out  with  Franz,  on 
foot,  and  took  the  walk  so  leisurely  that  when  we 
came  back  into  the  high-ror.d,  a  mile  below  the 
village,  the  sun  was  already  out  of  sight.  The 
afternoon  had  climbed  too,  and  had  outstripped  us ; 
but  to  follow  it  we  needed  only  to  lift  our  eyes,  for 
overhead  the  peaks  still  shone,  keeping  night  at 
bay  a  little  longer.  There  was  not  the  smallest 
hurry,  and  I  stopped  first  to  examine  a  rough  way 
side  shrine  with  its  glazed  portrait  of  the  Madonna, 
then  to  drink  from  a  spring  that  trickled  over 

11 


162  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

some  mossy  rocks  near  by.  Franz  pulled  out 
his  pipe. 

"  It  is  not  late,"  said  I.  "  Let  us  sit  here  and 
smoke  comfortably.  Hark,  I  hear  horses.  Is  that 
the  diligence  from  Geneva  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Franz,  after  cocking  his  head  to 
listen.  "  That  is  not  the  diligence." 

The  click  of  the  hoofs  drew  rapidly  nearer.  We 
watched  curiously  a  turn  of  the  road,  round  which 
in  a  few  moments  the  travellers  must  reveal  them 
selves.  Suddenly  the  sound  stopped.  Then  we 
heard  voices  raised  in  discussion.  Apparently  the 
strangers  had  come  to  grief,  and  were  bewailing  it 
in  at  least  two  languages.  My  ear  detected^  the 
confusion  of  tongues,  but  not  the  words. 

Franz  caught  up  his  ice-axe  and  coil  of  rope. 

"  An  accident !  "  he  cried  dramatically.  "  To 
the  rescue  !  "  It  proved  to  be  no  more  than  a  bro 
ken  trace.  0  Fortune !  No  more,  and  very  much 
more.  For  here  were  the  self-same  father  and 
daughter  who  had  been  whirled  away  from  me  out 
of  Saint  Maurice.  He  did  not  recognize  me  at 
first ;  in  such  a  case  the  father  never  docs.  But 
the  girl's  cheeks  colored  a  little  when  our  eyes  met. 
She  knew  instantly  that  they  had  met  before,  and 
she  remembered  where. 

While  Franz  and  the  coachman  mended  the 
harness,  the  old  man  thanked  me  for  our  timely  aid. 
He  had  seen  my  face,  he  thought,  but  could  not  tell 
when. 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  163 

"  Ten  days  ago,"  I  explained ;  "  in  the  Rhone 
valley." 

"  At  Saint  Maurice,  Papa ;  "  his  daughter  added. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,"  said  he,  with  a  smile.  "  You 
must  have  come  the  other  way." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  silently  wondering  why  the 
fact  should  afford  him  any  amusement.  An  awk 
ward  pause  followed,  during  which  I  read  the 
words  painted  on  one  of  the  trunks :  HARGRAVE, 
NEW  YORK.  Their  nationality  would  thus  have 
been  established,  had  any  doubt  of  it  existed  in  my 
mind.  The  man's  features  were  of  a  good  Ameri 
can  type ;  the  fashion  of  his  gray  beard  and  a  scar 
upon  his  forehead  gave  him  a  martial  look.  "  A 
veteran  of  the  last  war  !  "  I  thought.  "  Colonel, 
perhaps,  or  General  —  General  Hargrave  !  "  The 
girl  was  very  like  him,  with  brown  hair  and  eyes, 
and  a  very  clear  complexion ;  an  imperious  and 
fascinating  little  beauty  of  one  or  two  seasons,  — 
not  a  school-girl.  She,  of  course,  was  Miss  Har 
grave,  though  it  appeared  that  I  was  not  to  be  told 
this  formally.  Well,  introduction  was  a  bore ;  I 
should  make  no  move  in  its  direction.  I  knew 
her  name,  what  did  mine  matter  ? 

"  Jump  in,  Letty  !  "  said  the  old  soldier,  "  and 
tell  the  man  to  walk  his  horses.  The  village  is 
very  near,  and  I  sha'  n't  run  any  risks.  Won't  you 
take  the  other  seat?"  he  asked,  turning  to  me. 

I  excused  myself.  I  would  go  with  them,  but  on 
foot. 


164  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

Upon  further  talk,  as  we  proceeded,  I  thought 
the  acquaintance  was,  in  a  certain  way,  too  infor 
mal.  They  were  evidently  trying  to  be  civil,  but 
the  effort  was  always  apparent,  and  at  times  my 
presence  seemed  to  be  ignored.  It  was  too  late 
for  me  to  drop  behind ;  I  could  only  keep  on 
with  them,  and  do  my  best  to  seem  at  ease.  Find 
ing  that  they  had  never  been  in  Chamouni,  1 
pointed  out  its  wonders,  calling  the  mountain-tops 
by  their  names  familiarly.  Miss  Hargrave  lis 
tened  and  admired,  but  with  some  absence  of  mind. 
Suddenly  she  asked  me  if  there  were  many  Amer 
icans  at  the  hotels. 

Her  father  gave  a  dry  cough,  as  if  to  emphasize 
her  words  or  his  own.  "  Do  you  expect  to  find 
anybody,"  he  asked, — "  anybody  whom  you  know?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  brought  the  talk  direct 
ly  back  again  to  the  view. 

"  It  is  finer  than  all  the  rest,"  she  said,  "  but  we 
are  too  far  below  it ;  I  want  to  climb  up,  up, 
away  from  people,  —  American  people,  I  mean." 

This  speech  struck  me  as  most  discourteous 
under  the  circumstances,  and  for  a  moment  I  was 
confounded  by  it.  Did  she  take  me  for  some  out 
landish  foreigner  ?  Or,  worse  than  that,  was  I  a 
nobody,  to  be  forgotten,  as  well  as  ignored  ?  Her 
words  had  made  her  father  smile  unconsciously. 

"  Why  do  you  always  laugh,  Papa  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  n't  laughing,"  he  replied,  becoming  pre- 
ternaturally  solemn  at  once.  But  I  saw  the  smile 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  165 

getting  the  better  of  him  the  moment  her  attention 
was  diverted. 

"  Are  the  hotels  good  ?  "  she  inquired  of  me. 

I  was  not  forgotten  then.  Her  rudeness  was 
unintentional  of  course ;  to  her  I  was  a  foreigner. 
How  could  I  have  doubted  it  ?  The  joke  was  capi 
tal  ;  but  what  kind  of  foreigner,  I  wondered. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  returned,  "  as  hotels  go.  They  are 
not  grandiose,  —  not  like  the  Three  Crowns." 

"  Naturally  not,"  she  said  with  what  seemed  to 
me  a  tinge  of  contempt  in  her  tone.  Then,  more 
graciously,  "  We  were  there  a  day  or  two  ago. 
Papa  calls  it  the  finest  hotel  in  the  world." 

"  Particularly  as  to  its  service,"  her  father  added, 
"  and  to  its  wines." 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh  now,  as  I  did  most 
heartily.  Then,  remembering  that  they  were  out 
of  the  joke,  I  prepared  to  explain  it. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  began  ;  "  the  fact  is  that 
I  —  that  we  —  "  But  at  that  moment  the  report 
of  a  cannon  startled  us  all.  We  were  just  entering 
the  village,  where  the  gun  had  been  fired  in  honor 
of  the  latest  successful  ascension  of  the  summit. 
The  horses  made  a  forward  plunge,  whisked  wildly 
round  the  corner,  and  were  then  brought  up  quietly 
enough  before  the  door  of  a  small  hotel  remote 
from  Worden's  and  mine.  I  reached  it  almost  at 
the  same  moment,  breathless,  but  in  time  to  help 
Miss  Hargrave  down.  She  permitted  this  small 
courtesy,  and  acknowledging  it  by  a  slight  inclina- 


166  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

tion  of  the  head,  without  so  much  as  a  look  she 
swept  by  me  into  the  house.  Her  father,  follow 
ing,  stopped  and  turned  to  me. 

"  We  are  grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness,"  he 
said.  "  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  again  one  of  these 
days  —  in  Vevey."  And  he  was  gone. 

In  Vevey  ?     Why  not  in  Tokio,  or  in  Khartoum  ? 

In  Vevey  ?  Suddenly  a  light  broke  in  upon  me. 
Reviewing,  bit  by  bit,  our  fragmentary  talk,  its  con 
straint  was  all  accounted  for.  Misinformed  at  our 
first  meeting  through  their  coachman's  gossip,  they 
had  taken  me  for  a  servant.  My  own  words,  as 
chance  willed  it,  far  from  disproving  this,  had 
strengthened  the  case  against  me.  To  Miss  Letty 
Hargrave  I  was  no  more,  no  less  than  the  second 
butler  of  the  Three  Crowns. 

I  posted  back  to  Worden  in  a  rage,  and  hastily 
told  him  the  story.  His  delight  was  immeasurable. 

"  After  all  you  're  not  unlike  one.    It 's  delicious." 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you." 

"  Why  on  earth  should  you  care  a  copper  ?  You 
will  never  see  these  people  any  more.  By  the  way, 
who  are  they?" 

"  The  Hargraves, —  father  and  daughter." 

"  The  Hargraves  !  "  Then  there  was  a  pause,  so 
long  that  I  looked  up  ;  but  he  only  drummed  upon 
the  table  and  added,  "  Ah !  indeed." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  them  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  heard  of  them." 

"  Is  the  old  man  a  general  ? " 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  167 

"  General,  no !  He  served  for  a  week  or  so  in 
the  Northern  army,  as  a  major  at  the  most.  Yes, 
that's  it,  —  Major  Hargrave." 

"  What  else  can  you  tell  me  ? " 

"  Very  little.  He 's  an  idle  old  beggar,  living  on 
his  means.  His  house  has  a  high  stoop  and  a 
brown-stone  front.  Do  you  want  the  number  of 
the  street  ?  I  have  n't  it  by  me  ;  but  as  it 's  a  street 
in  New  York  we  may  be  sure  that  it  has  one.  The 
daughter,  —  well,  you  've  seen  her." 

I  sighed,  then  laughed.  My  position  in  the 
matter  was  somewhat  ludicrous. 

"  I  can't  say  much  for  Miss  Hargrave's  discern 
ment,"  said  I. 

"  Don't  be  harsh  with  her.  At  night  all  cats  are 
gray.  Had  you  made  now  that  little  speech  about 
your  heart  — " 

"  What  speech  ? " 

"  Why,  you  flung  it  after  her  down  the  Ville- 
neuve  road,  —  your  heart,  I  mean,  —  how  many  days 
ago?" 

"  Pish  !  "  I  cried  impatiently.  "  She  's  pretty, 
but  she  's  —  well  —  obtuse." 

"  Good  honest  talk  !  "  said  Worden.  "  Stick  to 
it.  While  you  have  been  masquerading  for  her 
benefit,  I  have  been  devising  means  to  make  your 
last  impressions  of  Chamouni  agreeable.  Listen, 
and  forget  her.  One  woman  will  be  as  good  as 
another  —  or  as  bad  —  when  you  come  to  my  age." 

"  She  is  forgotten.     Go  on,  patriarch !  " 


168  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

With  all  the  contemptible  ardor  of  a  tourist, 
"Wordcn,  in  my  absence,  had  actually  planned  an 
expedition,  and  a  long  one,  to  a  rock-bound  slope, 
high  up  among  the  glaciers,  called  the  Jardin. 

"  It  will  take  us  ten  hours,  or  twelve,  at  most," 
said  he. 

"An  all  day's  journey,  and  on  foot,"  I  an 
swered  doubtfully.  "  Where  is  the  Jardin  ?  " 

He  found  it  impossible  to  tell  me  in  words,  but 
taking  from  one  of  his  pockets  a  scrap  of  paper  he 
made  upon  that  a  rough  diagram  of  the  spot  and 
its  approaches. 

"  It  will  be  a  hard  pull,"  I  objected. 

"  Nonsense.  Women  do  it  frequently,  I  am  told. 
Where  is  your  enthusiasm  ?  " 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  I  had  opposed 
his  scheme  from  diplomatic  motives  only,  to  avoid 
bearing  the  burden  of  it  in  case  things  went  wrong. 
It  was  accordingly  arranged  that,  if  the  weather 
were  fine,  we  should  attempt  the  excursion  on  the 
following  day  at  an  early  hour.  Upon  going  to 
bed  that  night,  I  found  in  my  pocket  Worden's 
diagram,  which  I  had  unconsciously  carried  off. 
As  I  studied  for  a  moment  the  blurred  lines  of  his 
drawing,  I  noticed  a  peculiar  tint  in  the  paper,  and 
turned  it  over,  wondering  how  he  came  by  it.  On 
the  reverse  was  written  :  — 

Don't  go  yet. 

Olga  Andr^evna. 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  169 

I  perceived  then  that  I  held  in  my  hand  a  part 
of  one  of  Worden's  pale-blue  telegrams,  —  an  im 
portant  part,  since  it  bore  the  sender's  name,  which 
was  that  of  our  old  acquaintance  the  Russian 
princess. 

"  Oho ! "  thought  I,  as  I  wrapped  the  drapery 
of  my  couch  about  me.  "  Monsieur  the  butler-in- 
chief  is  himself  a  diplomatist.  It  suits  him  to  stay 
on  a  little  longer ;  and  to  lull  my  suspicions,  to 
keep  me  in  good  humor  he  has  racked  his  brains. 
The  mountain  has  labored  and  brought  forth  its 
mouse.  Worden  has  invented  the  Jardin." 

But  neither  in  the  pleasant  dreams  to  which  I 
then  lay  down,  nor  in  my  subsequent  waking  hours 
could  I  conceive  why  the  Princess  Olga  should  wish 
at  this  particular  moment  to  detain  him,  nor  why 
he,  who  commonly  chafed  at  all  restraint  like  a 
stubborn  horse,  should  now  submit  to  be  detained. 
Could  it  be  that  she  —  ?  No,  the  princess  had  a 
husband  somewhere,  I  believed,  —  an  ill-favored 
thing,  as  Touchstone  puts  it,  but  her  own.  And 
there  had  been  no  semblance  of  a  sheep's-eye,  how 
ever  faint,  on  her  part  or  on  Worden's. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  it  poured  in  torrents. 
Of  course  we  stayed  at  home ;  Worden  refusing  to 
put  even  so  much  as  his  nose  out  of  doors.  We 
devoted  ourselves  to  chess,  and  I  was  checkmated 
so  many  times  in  succession  that  Worden  inquired 
satirically  if  I  would  not  prefer  to  try  some  game 
that  I  knew  how  to  play.  Then  he  was  beaten 


170  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

badly,  and  while  my  spirits  rose  he  shut  up  the  board 
and  said  it  was  stupid  sport  after  all.  Your  fine 
player  at  anything,  one  observes,  must  always  win. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  second  day  I  went  out 
for  a  lonely  walk  in  the  rain ;  but  the  storin  was 
really  over.  Broken  patches  of  cloud  went  scurry 
ing  by,  revealing  rosy  light  behind  them.  Some 
where  at  a  lower  level  of  the  world  there  was  a 
sunset. 

"  To-morrow  will  be  marvellous,"  said  Franz, 
when  I  returned,  splashed  with  mud  from  head  to 
foot.  "  One  day  in  a  thousand  !  " 

"  To-morrow,  then,  the  Jardin !  "  I  replied. 

"  Did  you  meet  anybody  in  your  walk  ? "  de 
manded  Worden. 

"  No  one,"  said  I ;  "  not  even  the  Hargraves." 

" '  Not  even '  is  good,"  he  retorted.  "  I  don't 
trust  you  out  of  sight.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  you  '11 
be  engaged  to  her." 

"  Was  it  for  that,"  I  asked,  "  that  you  invented 
the  Jardin  ? "  He  looked  at  me  sharply.  I  think 
he  knew  that  I  meant  more  than  my  words  did ; 
but  he  pursued  the  subject  no  farther. 

The  dawn  was  cloudless  as  the  Swiss  had  pre 
dicted.  Though  we  were  up  betimes,  the  peaks  got 
the  start  of  us,  lifting  sublimely  above  the  lingering 
night  their  fresh,  unblemished  faces.  The  valley, 
still  asleep,  lay  dark  and  cold,  chilling  us  with 
heavy  breaths  of  vapor.  We  three  seemed  to  be 
the  only  human  creatures  stirring  in  it.  But  the 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  171 

Arve  was  awake  and  boisterous ;  and  everywhere 
we  heard  the  song  of  birds.  Halfway  up  the  Mon- 
tanvert  we  met  the  perfect  day,  and  watched  it 
stride  down  below  us  to  greet  the  meadows  and 
the  chalets,  one  by  one.  Then,  coming  out  upon 
the  shore  of  the  Mer  de  Glace,  we  turned  from  the 
beaten  track  that  leads  straight  across  its  frozen 
waves  ;  and  following  the  mountain  crest  for  some 
distance,  we  descended  to  the  glacier  by  means  of 
Les  Ponts,  —  a  series  of  small  ledges,  each  of  which 
affords  a  foothold  with  little  room  to  spare.  This 
passage,  though  not  dangerous,  absorbs  one's 
thought ;  here,  in  one  of  his  chamois-leaps,  Worden 
contrived  to  break  his  colored  eye-glasses,  inform 
ing  us  of  the  mishap  profanely.  His  loss  was  some 
what  serious,  for  in  spite  of  all  that  Franz  could 
urge,  he  had  refused  to  wear  a  veil ;  and  the  ice- 
glare  already  dazzled  us.  He  would  have  leisure 
for  repentance,  but  I  was  too  busy  in  crossing  the 
ugly  crevasse  below  him  to  tell  him  so.  In  a  few 
minutes  more  we  had  passed  the  one  small  peril  of 
our  journey,  and  our  course  stretched  away  before 
us  up  the  central  portion  of  the  glacier,  over  a  field 
of  ice  almost  unbroken. 

We  walked  on  toward  the  heart  of  this  vast  soli 
tude,  where  man  finds  himself  swiftly  dwarfed  into 
insignificance  by  the  sight  of  Nature  at  her  fiercest 
and  grandest,  —  shut  in  on  all  sides  by  an  insur 
mountable  barrier,  the  splintered  points  of  the 
Aiguilles.  No  two  are  alike,  and  all  are  terrible. 


172  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

Their  deep  ravines  overflow  with  jagged  ice  pressing 
forward  into  the  field,  and  their  shining  surfaces  of 
rock  lead  down  to  instant  death  upon  their  own 
fragments,  —  the  high,  loose  walls  of  the  moraines. 
The  ice  beneath  assumes  strange  shapes,  —  now 
regular,  as  if  a  skilful  hand  had  formed  them,  now 
distorted  and  unnatural,  more  fantastic  than  bar 
barism  itself.  There  is  no  roundness,  no  softness 
of  vegetation.  It  is  a  land  of  sharpness,  angular 
ity,  cold  and  fearful ;  except  for  its  color,  like 
a  landscape  in  the  moon.  But  the  colors  are  of 
startling  beauty.  In  this  shallow  glacial  pool 
lurks  a  transparent,  vivid  green,  peculiarly  its  own. 
And  those  well-like  shafts  near  by,  as  yet  unsounded 
by  any  scientific  plummet,  sink  into  a  blue  deeper 
and  clearer  than  that  we  call  the  blue  of  heaven. 
The  lustrous  rocky  pinnacles  have  been  well  com 
pared  to  spikes  of  metal,  once  molten  and  suddenly 
congealed.  All  things  here  seem  to  be  of  marble 
or  of  copper,  with  all  the  cunning  processes  of 
alchemy  at  work  in  them. 

"  Beware  of  the  moulins  I "  cried  Franz,  pointing 
toward  a  small  hole  down  which  a  surface  rivulet 
went  roaring  away,  drowning  itself  in  savage  music. 
"  They  are  dangerous  ;  one  would  not  desire  to  step 
into  them."  Just  then  we  heard  a  sharper  sound, 
breaking  into  a  rattle,  dying  off  in  reverberations 
like  a  peal  of  thunder.  "  An  avalanche  ! "  ex 
plained  the  guide.  "Look!  Another!"  Far  up 
a  distant  mountain-side  we  saw  a  faint  trail  of  icy 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  173 

smoke,  moving  so  slowly  that  Wordcn  had  time  to 
turn  the  field-glass  which  he  carried  full  upon  it. 
A  minute  later  came  the  noise,  prolonged  as  before, 
echoing  and  re-echoing. 

"  That  is  fine  !  "  said  Worden,  under  his  breath. 
So  far  as  I  know  this  was  the  only  word  of  unquali 
fied  approval  that  he  wasted  upon  Switzerland. 
We  had  come,  indeed,  into  an  atmosphere  of 
exhilaration. 

Nevertheless,  the  old  contest  of  the  wind  and 
the  sun  went  on  around  us ;  and  the  sun  got  the 
better  of  it,  precisely  as  he  did  in  ^Esop's  fable. 
His  mighty  blaze  tried  more  than  one  of  our  mor 
tal  senses.  But  when  I  offered  compassionately  a 
strip  of  my  veil  to  Worden,  he  scorned  it  as  though 
it  had  been  Cupid's  blinder.  He  took  this  occasion, 
moreover,  for  a  fling  at  my  alpenstock,  of  which, 
thus  far,  I  had  found  little  need.  Nothing  should 
ever  induce  him  to  brandish  this  ornamental 
weapon.  Did  I  not  feel  myself  to  be  a  model  ex 
cursionist,  got  up  for  show  ?  What  had  I  done 
with  my  personal  conductor  and  my  ninety-nine 
enrolled  companions  ?  Franz  inquired  what  mon 
sieur  was  saying,  and  when  I  told  him,  he  only 
laughed  discreetly,  and  called  Worden  un  gros 
farceur. 

But  when  we  left  the  ice,  and  toiled  up  the  yield 
ing  granite  masses  of  a  steep  and  treacherous 
moraine,  the  use  of  the  bdton  became  at  once  ap 
parent.  Worden  went  slipping  about,  making  all 


174  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

his  progress  laboriously.  At  last  he  fell,  and  after 
that  he  suffered  Franz  to  lend  him  a  hand  at  the 
difficult  places.  Aided  by  my  lighter  weight,  even 
more  than  by  my  staff,  I  could  have  distanced  them 
easily,  but  purposely  lagged  behind,  satisfied  to  en 
joy  my  obvious  triumph  in  contemptuous  silence. 
In  this  order  we  gradually  left  behind  us  the  great 
terminal  wall  of  the  Talefre,  and  gained  at  length 
one  of  the  most  important  stations  of  our  day's 
march,  —  a  promontory  of  solid  rock,  jutting  out 
grandly  into  the  rough,  noiseless  sea.  Here  Franz 
wished  that  we  should  repose  ourselves  for  awhile. 
And  here,  in  some  former  age,  an  enormous 
boulder  stopped  to  rest  in  its  downward  course, 
and  never  has  gone  on.  In  its  shelter  a  patch  of 
long  grass  has  grown,  —  grass  of  the  richest  green, 
as  soft  and  fine  as  though  it  were  the  fresh  sod  of 
an  English  lawn,  grateful  to  any  eyesight  that 
turns  toward  it  from  the  scorching  waste  of  the 
debris;  doubly  grateful,  now,  to  "Worden's.  He 
threw  himself  down  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
boulder. 

"  Un  beau  point  de  vue,"  said  Franz.  "  This, 
Messieurs,  is  called  the  Rock  of  Be*ranger :  — 

' ' '  Ah  !  qu'on  aspire  de  courage 

Dans  1'air  pur  du  sommet  des  monts  ! '  " 

Though  we  did  not  know  it  then,  he  had  quoted 
to  us  the  merry  poet  of  the  "  Roi  d'  Yvetot,"  draw 
ing  largely  for  the  lines,  no  doubt,  upon  his  slender 


THE  ROCK  OF  BtfRANGER.  175 

stock  in  trade.  Then  he  dropped  back  into  prose, 
and  gave  us  a  catalogue  of  Alpine  names,  to  which 
I  listened  with  indifference,  envying  his  knowledge 
less  than  his  nationality  that  made  this  prospect 
an  old  story  to  him. 

Directly  at  our  feet,  but  far  below  them,  three 
huge  ice-streams  met  to  form  the  Mer  de  Glace,  the 
whole  length  of  which  we  had  just  surmounted  ; 
and  on  three  sides  the  ice  was  hemmed  in  by  the 
bristling  summits  told  off  by  Franz  so  glibly.  Above 
them  all  Mont  Blanc  showed  us  a  new  face,  —  a 
wild  and  frowning  one.  No  mist  veiled  it,  no 
shred  of  cloud  crept  into  the  clear  blue  of  the  sky. 
Now  and  then  came  the  white  rush  of  an  avalanche, 
shouting  up  to  us  in  tones  of  thunder,  —  the  only 
sound,  the  only  movement  in  all  this  splendid 
desolation. 

"  And  where,"  asked  Wordcn,  "  is  the  Jardin  ? " 

"  Up  there,"  said  Franz,  pointing  at  a  high  mo 
raine  behind  us,  —  "  up  there  and  beyond  ;  a 
trifle  of  another  half-hour  or  so." 

Worden  eyed  for  an  instant  the  formidable  wall 
of  rock.  "  That  settles  it,"  he  said  ;  "  I  shall  wait 
for  you  here." 

In  vain  I  urged  that  this  was  not  all  he  had  come 
out  to  see. 

"  I  shall  see  the  rest  through  your  observant 
eyes,"  he  answered,  making,  as  he  spoke,  the  cir 
cuit  of  the  small  plateau,  to  explore  a  rude  stone 
shelter  thrown  up  under  the  boulder.  "  This  is  my 


176  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

domain.  If  I  am  molested,  which  is  most  unlikely, 
I  shall  take  refuge  in  my  dog-kennel,  and  bar  the 
door." 

He  limped  a  little  as  he  came  back  to  us,  and 
frankly  admitted  that  he  had  bruised  his  knee  in 
falling.  There  were  no  bones  broken  ;  amputation 
would  not  be  necessary,  he  fancied ;  he  did  not 
care  to  climb,  that  was  all. 

We  left  him  food  and  drink,  therefore,  and 
scrambled  on  without  him.  The  way  was  not  easy ; 
more  than  once  Franz  lowered  his  stick,  and  pulled 
me  up  by  it.  At  the  top  we  looked  back,  and  saw 
Worden  just  where  we  had  left  him,  smoking 
his  cigar  alone.  But,  as  we  turned  away,  Franz 
stopped  to  point  out  to  me  three  other  figures 
farther  off  upon  the  Mer  de  Glace,  —  mere  points  of 
moving  darkness,  that,  wThile  we  looked,  passed  out 
of  sight  among  the  rocks  below  the  boulder. 

"  They  are  coming  to  the  Jardin,"  said  Franz. 
"  The  day  is  too  fine ;  we  cannot  have  it  to  our 
selves." 

I  chuckled  at  the  thought  of  their  speedy  en 
croachment  upon  Worden's  philosophical  repose. 

"  He  will  take  to  his  tub,  and  shut  them  out,"  I 
reflected.  "  Poor  Diogenes  !  " 

We  found  the  Glacier  du  Tal£fre  ankle-deep  with 
wet  snow,  through  which  we  floundered  to  another 
low  moraine,  and  crossing  that,  we  stood  at  last 
on  the  green  slope  of  a  little  heart-shaped  island, 
completely  enclosed  with  ramparts  like  a  citadel. 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  177 

A  spring  bubbled  up  at  our  feet.  Bright  Alpine 
flowers  of  strange  hues  nodded  and  sparkled  in  the 
grass.  I  thought  the  breeze  had  blown  one  from 
its  stalk  ;  but  the  color  darted  here  and  there  with 
a  motion  of  its  own,  —  it  was  a  butterfly.  No  won 
der  that  its  discoverer  had  named  this  place  the 
Garden. 

We  sat  down  to  rest,  to  eat  and  drink  away  the 
time.  Then  Franz  curled  himself  up  like  a  mar 
mot,  and  went  to  sleep ;  while  I  watched  the  ava 
lanches,  until  the  long  silences  between  them  grew 
oppressive,  bringing  me  a  shuddering  sense  of 
loneliness.  The  very  air  felt  too  pure  for  humanity 
with  all  its  faults  and  passions.  Voices !  It  was 
a  relief  to  hear  them.  The  other  party  must  be 
very  near.  In  a  few  moments  a  guide  peered  over 
the  wall,  and  then  came  down,  bringing  with  him 
no  less  a  person  than  Major  Hargrave. 

He  greeted  me  in  civil  surprise,  while  Franz 
shook  himself  awake  and  hobnobbed  with  the  guide. 

"  And  the  rest  of  your  party  ? "  said  I.  "  We 
thought  there  were  three  of  you." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  my  daughter.  She  had  enough  of  it, 
and  is  waiting  below  at  the  other  halting-place." 

"  Alone  ? " 

"  Yes.     We  are  only  three." 

"  But  —  alone  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "  Why 
not  ?  There  are  no  wild  beasts,  I  believe,  and  no 

banditti." 

12 


178  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

Unhappy  Worden  !  He  had  really  imprisoned 
himself,  then,  at  the  sound  of  their  voices. 

The  major's  luncheon  was  now  produced,  and 
with  it  a  bottle  of  RUdesheimer,  from  which  he  filled 
a  glass  for  me.  He  looked  somewhat  vexed  when 
I  declined  to  drink  with  him. 

"  I  have  lunched  already,"  I  explained. 

"  A  glass  more  or  less  is  nothing,"  he  urged. 
"  But  I  suppose  you  prefer  the  native  wines.  Every 
man  to  his  taste.  Which,  now,  do  you  call  your 
best  one  ? " 

"  I  have  never  compared  the  Swiss  wines." 

He  stared  at  me  in  silent  wonder.  "  I  see,"  he 
said,  at  length  ;  "  Swiss  grapes  are  like  prophets, 

—  for  exportation  only." 

"  Perhaps.     I  really  don't  know." 

He  grew  more  and  more  perplexed,  while  I 
quietly  enjoyed  his  confusion. 

"  May  I  ask  where  you  learned  English  ? "  he 
demanded  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  in  a  land  where  it  is  spoken  fluently, 

—  the  United  States  of  America." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     But  I  understood  —  " 
"  That  I  was  in  the  service  of  the  Three  Crowns. 
Quite  the  reverse.     I  am  a  good  Yankee,  but  I  can't 
'  keep  a  hotel ! '  Perhaps  because  I  have  never  tried." 
He  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  begged  me  a 
thousand   pardons  ;   when   I   told   him    the  whole 
story,  he   begged  .ten   thousand   more.     Then  we 
buried  our  little  .hatchet  in  his  Rhenish  wine. 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  179 

"  It  was  your  own  fault,  after  all,"  he  said 
amiably.  "  You  spoke  French  so  well." 

I  had  heard  him  try  to  speak  it,  and  could  there 
fore  appreciate  the  true  value  of  his  compliment ; 
but  I  thanked  him  none  the  less. 

"  And  you  can  read  it  too,  of  course  ? " 

«  Well,  yes  ;  a  little." 

"  Then  help  me  out  with  this,"  he  said,  unfolding 
a  newspaper,  and  letting  his  voice  fall  into  a 
whisper.  "  It  came  by  post  yesterday ;  from  whom 
I  can't  imagine.  These  long  words  puzzle  me,  and 
I  could  not  ask  my  daughter.  I  did  not  like  to  let 
her  know." 

The  French  journal,  printed  at  Geneva,  was 
three  days  old.  In  a  long  letter  from  the  regular 
correspondent  at  Vevey,  I  found  a  marked  passage 
recounting  the  loss  of  an  American  tourist  near 
the  summit  of  the  Mer  de  Glace.  He  had  gone 
out  to  walk  alone  and  had  not  returned.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  of  his  sad  fate,  for  untiring 
search  had  brought  to  light  an  alpenstock  with 
his  veil  tied  to  it,  at  a  point  known  as  the  Rock 
of  Boranger.  The  man's  description  followed,  last 
of  all  his  name.  The  story  was  told  in  a  florid 
style,  with  many  mournful  interjections  ;  and  it  was 
signed,  "  Trois  Couronnes."  I  caught  its  purport 
at  a  glance,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  translate  it 
gravely,  word  for  word,  in  a  firm  voice.  This  feat, 
however,  was  more  than  difficult,  for  the  descrip 
tion  and  the  name  were  Worden's. 


180  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  thought  so,"  sighed  Major  Hargrave, 
as  I  read  on  to  the  end.  I  was  just  preparing  to 
laugh  at  him,  when  he  grew  strangely  confidential, 
after  the  manner  of  your  good  American,  who 
comes  upon  a  sympathetic  compatriot  in  some 
lonely  corner  of  the  world. 

"  It  is  terrible,"  he  whispered.  "  I  hardly  dare 
to  tell  you  what  I  fear  —  and  yet  —  " 

"  You  may  trust  me.  What  is  it  that  you  fear  ? " 

"  A  case  of  suicide,"  said  Major  Hargrave,  turn 
ing  white  at  the  word.  "  The  man  was  dead  in 
love,  —  desperately  so.  I  happen  to  know  it.  He 
has  killed  himself.  It  is  as  if  I  knew  that  too." 

For  one  instant  my  face  must  have  been  whiter 
than  his  own.  What  if  this  nameless,  petty  fiend, 
this  printer's  devil,  with  cunning  prescience  had 
lied  like  truth  ?  What  if  Worden,  desperate  to 
folly,  had  dismissed  me  that  shining  morning  to 
take  his  own  life,  and  had  chosen  for  his  fatal  deed, 
by  a  strange  chance,  the  very  spot  the  lie  had 
branded  ?  He  was  dead  in  love  ;  I  knew  that ;  but 
he  was  not  a  fool.  And  so  the  color  came  back 
into  my  face,  and  I  laughed  at  the  doleful  look  in 
Major  Hargrave's. 

"  Don't  laugh  !  "  he  cried  imploringly.  "  To 
me  it  is  a  most  distressing  matter.  He  was  a 
capital  fellow.  You  could  not  laugh  if  you  had 
known  him." 

Not  know  my  fellow-traveller  ?  At  this  absurd 
suggestion  I  only  laughed  the  more.  But  the 


THE  ROCK  OF  BE  RANGER,  181 

major  lost  his  temper,  and  turning  red  as  a  turkey- 
cock,  he  shook  the  lying  letter  in  my  face. 

"  Damn  it,  sir,  do  you  call  that  a  joke  ? " 

"  Excuse  me ;  I  can't  help  it.  Your  dead  man 
is  n't  dead ;  that 's  all." 

"  Not  dead  ? " 

"  Dead  in  love,  yes ;  but  in  the  flesh,  alive  and 
well.  He  has  turned  hermit,  and  gone  into  a 
retreat.  Present  address,  the  Rock  of  Be'ranger." 

"  Where  is  that,  in  the  Devil's  name  ? " 

"  Why,  the  great  boulder,  —  the  halting-place 
there,  below  us." 

"  What !     Where  my  daughter  —  " 

Then  Major  Hargrave  turned  from  red  to  purple, 
and  laughed  till  he  woke  the  echoes  like  an  ava 
lanche,  —  till  the  very  guides,  without  knowing  why, 
joined  in  the  laugh,  and  prolonged  the  echo ;  and 
I  too,  but  for  cause.  Worden  loved  in  vain.  The 
major  knew  it ;  well  and  good,  but  how  ?  Why 
should  he  take  my  companion's  small  affair  of  the 
heart  so  seriously  and  so  merrily  unless  it  con 
cerned  his  own  companion,  Miss  Letty  Hargrave  ? 

I  asked  no  questions,  and  he  told  me  nothing. 
As  we  came  out  into  the  land  of  snow,  his  mind 
wandered  off  into  a  maze  of  conjecture  regarding 
the  origin  of  the  tale  in  print.  I  had  found  my 
own  clew  to  that,  but  I  kept  it  to  myself.  At  the 
green  plateau  we  found  Worden  and  Miss  Hargrave 
chatting  pleasantly  like  old  friends.  She  smiled 
when  she  saw  me,  and  at  last  we  were  introduced. 


182  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

But  she  made  no  allusion  to  the  stupid  mistake 
concerning  my  identity,  of  which  she  had  been 
the  victim ;  perhaps  because  she  thought  me  too 
dull  to  notice  the  difference  between  reserve  and 
cordiality. 

While  we  talked,  Worden  and  Major  Hargrave 
exchanged  confidences  with  much  suppressed  hilar 
ity.  "  I  assure  you  I  knew  nothing  of  it,"  I  heard 
Worden  say.  The  guides  called  us  to  order.  We 
looked  our  last  at  the  waning  splendor  of  the 
glaciers,  along  which  the  shadows  were  slowly 
lengthening ;  and  then  we  all  came  down  together. 

Worden,  still  limping  though  not  disabled, 
dropped  behind  with  the  major,  leaving  Miss  Har 
grave  entirely  to  me.  She  was  all  charm  and 
sweetness  now,  with  that  air  of  bewitching  co 
quetry  which  had  impressed  me  at  the  very  first. 
Without  vanity  I  may  record  my  conviction  that 
she  tried  her  best  to  captivate  me  that  day.  For 
had  I  been  a  monster  of  deformity  I  believe 
she  would  have  done  the  same.  Luckily  for  my 
peace  of  mind  I  could  not  forget  that  she  had  just 
mistaken  me  for  a  servant,  and  she  left  me  as  she 
found  me,  irresponsive.  But  under  other  circum 
stances  I  should  have  gone  to  bed  that  night  madly 
in  love  with  her,  —  and  much  she  would  have  cared. 
She,  of  all  women,  had  the  least  right  to  such  a 
conquest  then.  But  what  of  that  ?  Your  brilliant 
blue-and-gold  macaw,  to  the  last  gasp,  will  allure 
you  with  a  pretty  attitude,  only  to  turn  and  rend 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER,  183 

you.  You  cannot  change  its  nature.  Macaws  are 
made  so. 

It  was  late  when  we  got  back  to  our  hotel ;  but 
I  followed  Worden  to  his  room,  went  in  after  him, 
and  shut  the  door. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me,"  I  de 
manded,  "  what  all  this  means  ?  " 

"  To  the  best  of  my  ability.  But  first,  perhaps, 
I  ought  to  tell  you  —  "  He  hesitated. 

"  What  ? "  I  asked  impatiently. 

"  That  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  Hargrave." 

"  Since  when  ?  "  I  stammered,  too  much  startled 
for  congratulation. 

"  Since  this  morning.  We  agreed  to  let  you 
know." 

I  quoted  Franz,  and,  through  him,  Beranger. 

"  'Ah  !  qu'on  aspire  de  courage 

Dans  1'air  pur  du  soinmet  des  monts  ! ' 

For  this,  then,  you  invented  the  Jardin." 

"  No,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  It  was  n't  in  the  pro 
gramme.  After  you  left  me,  I  fled  into  the  hut  at 
the  sound  of  voices.  When  all  was  quiet,  and  I 
thought  I  was  alone  again,  I  came  out.  To  my 
amazement  there  was  Letty  —  Miss  Hargrave  — 
crying  like  a  child  over  a  letter." 
"  A  letter  ? " 

"  Yes,  —  or  rather  its  enclosure  ;  half  a  news 
paper  column,  describing  my  awful  death,  —  a  du 
plicate  of  that  the  major  showed  you." 


184  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  She  knew  of  it,  then  ? " 

"  The  writer  took  good  care  of  that." 

"I  see.     And  so  —  " 

"  So  she  screamed  at  the  sight  of  me,  and  I 
thought  she  would  have  fallen.  I  caught  her,  I 
believe.  And  then  —  odd,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"Very.  Your  lead  of  trumps  has  been  fully 
justified." 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,"  he  cried  indignantly.  "  I 
did  n't  lead.  I  only  followed  suit." 

"  What  ?  That  obituary  notice  was  not  your 
work?" 

"  No ;  I  tell  you.  I  knew  nothing  of  it,  abso 
lutely  nothing.  All  I  knew  was  this." 

And  he  handed  me  the  following  letter :  — 

CHER  ANIMAL,  —  Ask  her  again,  and  you  will  get 
her.  She  has  refused  you  once,  twice,  you  will  say, 
a  dozen  times ;  I  care  not  how  many.  Some  women 
are  like  that.  And  this  one  loves  you  ;  I  am  sure  of 
it.  So  I  have  telegraphed  you  again  to  wait  in  Cha- 
inouni.  Disobey  me  at  your  peril.  In  proof,  I  ven 
ture  upon  a  small  experiment.  It  shall  do  no  harm  ; 
perhaps  it  shall  do  good.  I  pray  for  this,  for  you  and 
for  myself.  It  would  be  such  joy  for  me  to  accom 
plish  this  good  action,  since  there  are  not  too  many  to 
remember  in  my  life.  Be  disci'eet  therefore,  and  if  I 
go  wrong  instead  of  right,  forgive 

Your  best  —  or  worst  —  of  friends, 

OLGA  ANDREEVNA. 


THE  ROCK  OF  BERANGER.  185 

I  looked  at  Worden.  If  any  man  on  earth  could 
be  called  completely  happy,  it  was  surely  he. 

"  The  princess  is  adorable,"  I  said.  "  My  dear 
old  man,  with  all  my  heart  I  congratulate  you." 

With  what  a  vengeance  Time  can  turn  his  tables  ! 
She,  who  led  him  such  a  dance,  now  sits  at  his 
clumsy  feet,  and  has  no  thought  that  is  not  his. 
He  loves  her  too  in  his  own  way,  which  is  a  shade 
less  devotional  than  hers.  But  that  you  know  him, 
you  might  almost  reproach  him  with  indifference. 
A-Vho,  not  knowing  him,  would  ever  guess  how 
much  she  made  him  suffer,  how  freely  he  forgave 
her  on  the  instant,  putting  all  but  love  away  ?  And 
I,  who  longed  to  climb,  now  hobble  painfully,  con 
tent  if  I  can  hold  my  own  on  level  ground.  Rheu 
matism  the  doctor  calls  it ;  but  I  know  better,  it  is 
gout.  I  know  also  that  the  rare  blue  we  call  the 
blue  of  heaven  is  but  an  aqueous  evaporation.  Ah ! 
were  all  to  do  again,  the  upper  air  should  never 
tempt  me.  I  too  would  lie  down  and  rest  most 
gladly  under  the  Rock  of  Be'ranger. 


MAESTRO    AMBROGIO. 


IN  a  certain  narrow  street  of  Florence,  near 
Andrea  del  Sarto's  house  and  the  Annunziata's 
choir,  where  with  maimed  rites  the  mortal  part  of 
the  poor  painter  senza  errori  was  hurried  under 
the  pavement,  there  lived  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
fifteenth  century  a  learned  doctor  whose  name  and 
titles  history  is  scarcely  able  to  recall.  Yet  the 
young  Andrea  may  have  known  him ;  and  the  illus 
trious  Leonardo,  called  Da  Vinci,  wise  in  many 
things  and  ennobling  all  with  a  touch  rarer  than 
the  golden  one  of  fable,  was  surely  numbered 
among  his  friends.  But  the  doctor  led  a  life  of 
deep  seclusion,  indifferent  to  the  storms  of  party 
strife,  to  plot  and  insurrection,  battles  and  mur 
ders,  the  tyrant's  yoke,  the  tyrant's  favor.  His 
four  gray  walls  sheltered  him  from  the  summer's 
heat,  the  winter's  cold;  his  little  garden  caught 
from  the  sunlight  all  the  colors  of  the  prism  in 
roses,  wild  pomegranates,  and  oleanders.  The 
laboratory  behind  it  held  his  store  of  manuscripts, 
his  retorts  and  crucibles,  his  furnace  and  his  bel 
lows,  all  the  apparatus  needed  for  experiments 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  187 

which  so  absorbed  him  that  he  seldom  went  out 
into  the  bustling  streets.  He  had  but  one  thought, 
one  purpose,  —  to  make  some  vast  discovery  which 
should  benefit  the  human  race ;  and  as  he  was 
human  too,  one  may  imagine  that  his  ambition 
went  a  little  farther,  coupling  with  the  glorious 
result  his  own  name,  and  immortalizing  that.  Un 
doubtedly  he  longed  and  hoped  to  live  forever  in 
men's  hearts ;  to  have  his  ashes  consecrated  in  a 
gilded  shrine,  surmounted  by  a  marble  bust,  —  a 
goal  of  pilgrimage.  Alas  !  None  knows  where  he 
lies  buried.  You  may  find  his  house  to-day  in  the 
Via  del  Mandorlo, — his  laboratory  has  been  turned 
into  a  stable ;  the  roses  still  run  riot  in  his  garden, 
and  the  snails  still  nibble  at  their  leaves ;  but  the 
last  of  many  tenants,  treading  the  very  paths  he 
trod,  will  smile  and  tell  you  that  the  property  has 
been  in  his  own  family  from  time  immemorial,  and 
that  no  such  man  ever  lived  and  died  there  as 
Maestro  Ambrogio. 

He  was  a  bachelor  of  course,  and  had  come  to 
that  time  of  life  when  a  man  is  neither  young  nor 
old,  and  when  a  few  additional  years  work  little 
change  in  him.  His  figure  was  slender  and  well- 
proportioned  ;  but  his  shoulders  had  the  scholar's 
stoop,  his  thin  face  the  hungry  look  of  an  ascetic  ; 
the  bright  blue  eyes  in  it  seemed  younger  than  the 
rest  of  him ;  for  contrary  to  all  custom  of  the  day, 
he  went  unshorn  and  unshaven,  and  his  brown  hair, 
streaked  with  gray,  mingled  with  the  untrimmed 


188  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

beard  that  swept  over  his  breast,  muffling  him  like 
a  disguise.  He  wore  habitually  the  Florentine 
lucco,  or  long  robe  of  black  serge,  familiar  to  the 
world  through  Dante's  portraits ;  and  with  this, 
the  hood-like  civic  bonnet  of  the  same  material. 
These  garments,  in  spite  of  his  absorbing  pursuits, 
were  always  of  the  most  scrupulous  neatness ; 
while  his  hands  were  marvellously  white  and  slen 
der,  fine,  delicate,  like  the  hands  of  a  noble.  But 
the  man's  nobility  of  nature  found  its  best  expres 
sion  in  his  voice,  which  was  low  and  clear,  never 
querulous,  never  raised  in  anger,  of  surpassing  gen 
tleness  and  patience  in  all  its  tones ;  so  that  he 
who  heard  it  for  the  first  time  stood  spell-bound 
in  respectful  silence,  as  though  the  speech  were 
half  divine,  and  its  simple  phrases  the  utterance  of 
an  oracle. 

Few,  however,  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  his 
household,  ever  heard  the  voice  of  Maestro  Am- 
brogio.  His  one  servant,  an  old  peasant  woman 
from  the  mountains  of  the  Mugello,  stood  between 
him  and  all  the  cares  and  worries  of  the  outer 
world.  Monna  Modesta  was  well  known  in  the 
quarter.  It  was  she  who  went  to  market  for  him, 
who  knew  the  worth  of  a  plump  fowl,  and  was 
ready  to  pay  just  that  and  no  more  ;  above  all,  who 
kept  her  master's  house  in  the  wonderful  and  in 
credible  state  of  cleanliness  noted  in  chronicles  of 
the  time.  But  only  the  house  ;  she  was  never 
allowed  to  pass  beyond  the  garden,  to  profane  the 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  189 

dust  of  the  laboratory  with  her  vulgar  hands. 
This,  to  one  of  her  instincts,  was  a  positive  and 
constant  grief.  With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  bade 
the  saints  witness  that  her  master's  good  was  all 
she  had  at  heart,  and  that  dust  was  the  insidious 
foe  of  all  mankind ;  yet  Maestro  Ambrogio  re 
mained  a  very  pig  for  obstinacy,  as  she  declared. 
The  laboratory  and  its  contents  were  never  to  be 
touched  ;  he  and  his  young  pupil,  the  noble  signer 
Gentile  Morelli,  alone  could  enter  it;  even  its  small 
windows,  high  above  her  head,  must  not  be  scoured. 
This  last  command  was  hardly  to  be  borne,  and  for 
a  time  she  persistently  disobeyed  it,  —  climbing  the 
trellis  in  her  master's  absence,  removing  dead 
leaves  from  the  sills,  polishing  the  leaded  panes ; 
and  since  she  could  not  open  them,  peering  within, 
defiantly,  upon  a  group  of  broken  jars  stored  away 
on  a  neglected  shelf  and  half  buried  in  cobwebs, 
through  which  the  wicked  old  spiders  eyed  her 
with  indifference.  Beyond  these  evidences  of  pes 
tilential  disorder  she  saw  dimly,  in  the  feeble  glow 
of  the  furnace,  a  confusion  of  utensils  whose  very 
names  were  unknown  to  her.  And  one  day  when 
there  was  more  light  than  usual,  she  also  discerned 
the  outlines  of  a  splendid  alabaster  chest,  of  great 
size  and  carved  in  high  relief,  but  sadly  stained 
and  blackened.  In  her  simple  ignorance  she  took 
this  for  a  linen-coffer,  and  longed  to  have  it  re 
moved  and  cleansed  and  restored  to  its  proper 
uses  under  her  careful  supervision.  The  good 


190  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

soul  little  dreamed  that  this  sculptured  wonder 
had  been  designed  merely  to  hold  what  she  most 
despised ;  namely,  dust.  For  it  was  an  Etruscan 
sarcophagus,  found  long  ago  by  her  master  in  his 
mountain  vineyard  near  Gubbio,  and  by  him 
brought  down  to  Florence  with  reverent  care,  for 
the  sake  of  its  principal  figure, —  a  young  girl, 
recumbent  in  the  marble,  but  life-like,  as  if  a  touch 
would  rouse  her ;  the  portrait,  no  doubt,  of  the 
dead  unknown  whose  ashes  Maestro  Ambrogio  still 
treasured,  undisturbed. 

Monna  Modesta,  wise  in  her  small  way,  applied 
to  herself  that  proverb  of  her  nation  which  prizes 
the  ounce  of  discretion  above  the  pound  of  knowl 
edge.  As  a  matter  of  course,  she  gave  her  master 
no  cause  to  suspect  that  she  had  climbed  the  trel 
lis  to  look  upon  these  things,  prudently  resolving 
to  pry  into  them  no  more.  But  she  continued 
to  sound  the  praises  of  order  and  her  own  devo 
tion  to  it  on  all  possible  occasions ;  with  righteous 
thanks  that  she  was  not  as  others  were,  uplifting 
her  standard  at  the  gate  of  the  enemy's  citadel,  to 
wage  fierce  warfare  upon  the  insects  of  the  garden, 
where  not  so  much  as  a  leaf  was  permitted  to  fall 
unperceived ;  while  the  student  Gentile,  having 
daily  access  to  the  precincts  from  which  she  was 
so  rigorously  excluded,  daily  grew  in  her  disfavor. 
She  looked  upon  him  as  a  poor  misguided  crea 
ture,  aiding  and  abetting  her  master  in  practices 
that  were,  to  say  the  least,  unwholesome,  and  that 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  191 

did  no  good  to  anybody,  so  far  as  honest  folk 
could  see. 

Toward  the  close  of  a  lovely  day  when  the  long 
Italian  summer  was  nearly  gone,  Monna  Modesta 
sat  spinning  and  considering  deeply  many  things. 
She  had  moved  her  wheel  into  a  sunny  corner  of 
the  garden,  and  the  grateful  warmth  reminded  her 
that  winter  was  not  far  off,  and  that  winter,  at  her 
age,  was  to  be  dreaded.  She  must  go  to  market  in 
the  morning  and  get  the  better  of  old  Niccold,  who 
was  a  rascal  at  heart,  and  would  cheat  her  if  he 
could.  The  thought  caused  her  wheel  to  rattle 
angrily.  The  world's  prevailing  wickedness  made 
duty  doubly  hard ;  the  wicked  seemed  to  thrive  and 
flourish,  while  for  the  good,  life  was  a  long  conten 
tion,  with  palsy  at  the  end.  The  breeze  shook  down 
some  dead  leaves  from  the  rose  trained  above  her 
head.  Yes,  autumn  had  already  come ;  and  what 
would  befall  her  master  if  the  winter  should  be  her 
last  ?  He  could  never  take  care  of  himself ;  he  must 
inevitably  become  the  prey  of  thieves.  She  sighed, 
and  the  wheel  stopped  turning ;  the  dry  leaves  rus 
tled  under  foot,  but  she  did  not  stoop  for  them. 

A  key  grated  in  the  lock  of  the  laboratory  door. 
The  sound  passed  unheeded,  and  her  master's  pres 
ence  was  first  made  known  to  her  by  his  shadow  on 
the  garden-path.  The  wheel  resumed  its  work,  but 
quite  unconsciously  she  sighed  again. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  my  good  Modesta  ? "  asked 
Maestro  Ambrodo. 


192  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  The  winter  is  at  hand,  my  master.  I  feel  its 
breath  already,  and  I  am  old." 

"  Madre  mia,  with  such  nimble  fingers ! "  re 
turned  the  doctor,  as  he  watched  the  whirring 
wheel.  "  There  is  no  winter  in  your  blood." 

"  Eh,  Signor,  the  candle  burns  low ;  a  puff  will 
put  it  out.  And  who  then  will  look  after  you? 
Not  the  miserable  Gentile,  that  insect,  who  knows 
less  of  the  world's  ways  than  would  fill  a  snail- 
shell.  The  house  that  has  no  woman  in  it  is  a 
ruined  house,  Signor.  You  must  marry,  that  I  may 
die  content." 

"  Death  will  come,"  said  the  doctor,  gravely ; 
"  but  yesterday  you  did  not  fear  it.  And  it  is  only 
one  day  nearer  now.  You  talk  of  winter  too  be 
fore  its  time.  See,  above  your  head,  there  is  a 
rose." 

"  The  last,"  she  answered  ;  "  to  pick  that  would 
bring  ill  luck  upon  the  house.  Master,  do  not  touch 
it,  I  pray  you." 

But  the  rose  was  already  plucked,  and  as  the 
doctor  held  it  out  to  her,  its  petals  fell  apart  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  To  Monna  Modesta  this  was 
the  worst  of  omens,  and  as  if  to  confirm  her  super 
stitious  fancy,  a  violent  gust  of  the  autumn  breeze 
shook  every  twig  in  the  garden,  and  raised  a  cloud 
of  dust  about  their  feet.  The  small  whirlwind 
passed  them  by  in  a  moment ;  but  she  had  spoken 
truly,  —  there  was  winter  in  its  breath. 

"  Keep  the  rose,  Signor,"  she  said  reproachfully ; 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO  193 

"  for  death  has  overtaken  it.  Is  not  this  a  warn 
ing  ?  Make  haste  to  choose  your  wife,  and  choose 
her  well,  Maestro  Ambrogio." 

The  doctor  smiled  and  pointed  at  the  door  of  his 
laboratory. 

"  My  wife  is  there,"  said  he,  lightly.  "  She  is 
wise  and  gentle  and  forgiving,  with  no  complaints 
and  no  harsh  words.  She  is  always  young,  always 
beautiful ;  after  all  these  years,  would  you  have  me 
turn  against  her  now,  and  prove  unfaithful  ?" 

"  Has  my  master  lost  his  senses  ? "  muttered 
Monna  Modesta.  "  Of  what  woman  is  he  speaking  ?  " 

"  Of  no  woman,  but  of  Science,"  replied  the  doc 
tor,  laughing.  "  She  is  the  best  and  sweetest  wife 
in  the  whole  world." 

"  A  fig  for  her  !  "  cried  the  old  servant,  testily. 
"  Tell  me  !  Can  Science  go  to  market,  and  choose 
between  an  old  fowl  and  a  tender  chicken  ?  Can 
she  mind  the  spit,  or  sew  new  hooks  upon  the  robe 
you  wear  ?  Can  she  make  me  young  again,  or  even 
persuade  me  that  I  am  not  growing  old  ?  Science  ! 
Bah !  Can  she  turn  winter  into  spring,  or  bring 
the  dead  to  life  ? " 

"  Or  bring  the  dead  to  life ! "  The  doctor  had 
gone  laughing  to  his  work  again.  But  these  words 
made  him  start ;  they  rang  in  his  ears  after  the 
door  had  closed  upon  them.  He  stood  grave  and 
silent,  far  removed  in  thought  from  the  musty  dis 
order  of  his  workshop,  until  a  sweet  perfume, 
strangely  out  of  place  there,  recalled  him  to  him- 

13 


194  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

self;  it  came  only  from  the  fading  flower,  rudely 
crushed  and  broken  in  his  hand. 

"  The  last  rose,"  he  said,  gathering  up  carefully 
some  of  its  outer  petals  that  had  fallen  to  the  floor. 
"  Will  it  bring  ill  luck  upon  the  house  ?  We  shall 
see,  —  we  shall  see  !  " 

That  night  Monna  Modesta  summoned  him  in 
vain  to  supper.  She  laid  the  cloth,  and  sitting 
down  beside  it  watched  and  waited,  then  nodded 
and  dozed  over  it  alone.  She  awoke  at  a  late  hour, 
to  find  the  food  still  there,  untasted.  A  light  shone 
in  the  laboratory ;  and  stealing  out  into  the  dark, 
she  climbed  the  trellis  cautiously  to  the  little  win 
dow  and  looked  down.  There  sat  the  doctor  before 
a  small  brazier  filled  with  glowing  embers,  turning 
the  leaves  of  a  parchment  book  in  old  black-letter. 
He  stopped  and  sighed ;  then,  to  her  astonishment, 
he  flung  the  fragments  of  a  rose  —  her  rose  —  into 
the  heart  of  the  hot  coals,  and  fell  to  reading  again 
in  the  great  book.  A  cannon-shot  would  hardly 
have  aroused  him  from  his  studies.  But  she  crept 
back  as  quietly  as  she  came,  in  speechless  won 
der  ;  went  to  her  bed,  slept,  and  dreamed,  still 
wondering. 

In  the  morning  the  table  stood  precisely  as  she 
had  left  it ;  her  master's  bed  was  empty  ;  and  her 
honest  wrath  broke  forth  upon  the  head  of  the  stu 
dent  Gentile,  who  came  at  his  accustomed  hour. 
He  was  a  handsome  youth,  wearing  a  cloak  of  vio 
let  silk  jauntily  draped  over  his  velvet  doublet.  A 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  195 

lute  was  slung  across  his  shoulder.  The  very  ease 
and  trimness  of  him  carried  Monna  Modesta's 
anger  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason. 

"  Here  are  fine  doings  truly ! "  she  cried. 
"  Maestro  Ambrogio  has  had  neither  food  nor  sleep 
this  night.  Why  was  not  your  splendid  laziness 
here  to  help  him  ? "  And  never  listening  for  his 
answer,  she  went  on,  — 

"  Go  out  and  fetch  him  in  to  breakfast.  I  pray 
our  Gracious  Lady  that  he  be  not  starved  already. 
If  you  find  him  dead,  lay  it  at  your  own  door, 
popinjay ! " 

Maestro  Ambrogio  looked  pale  and  worn,  but 
somewhat  to  her  regret,  he  was  not  dying  of  star 
vation.  She  pointed  at  the  table  with  an  injured 
air. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said,  "  I  have  an  appetite.  But 
as  you  see,  my  night's  work  was  not  unprofitable." 

And  before  seating  himself  he  handed  her  a 
rose. 

She  knew  that  none  were  left  in  the  garden,  yet 
she  turned  instinctively  to  the  window ;  for  the 
flower  was  but  half  open,  and  seemed  to  have  the 
morning  freshness  in  it. 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  did  not  find  it  there.  To 
please  you,  I  have  restored  the  dead  to  life.  That 
is  all." 

He  was  above  any  wilful  deception,  before  all 
human  creatures  to  be  trusted ;  but  now  she 


196  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

doubted  him,  even  while  she  could  not  help  observ 
ing  that,  in  size  and  color,  this  was  the  perfect 
counterpart  of  the  rose  so  lately  reduced  to  ashes 
under  her  too  curious  eyes. 

*'  Well,"  he  continued,  "  you  will  never  say  sharp 
things  any  more  about  my  gentle  mistress.  Come  ! 
Confess  that  her  work  has  been  complete  and 
wonderful." 

"  Wonderful ! "  repeated  Monna  Modesta,  press 
ing  the  rose  to  her  lips  that  she  might  conceal  her 
doubts  behind  it.  Then  she  found  it  dry  and  scent 
less,  and  she  believed  him. 

But  the  increased  respect  with  which  she  now 
regarded  her  master  had  a  touch  of  pity  in  it,  a 
new  tenderness  unfelt  before.  It  was  plain  that 
he  failed  to  perceive  the  fatal  imperfection  of  his 
handiwork ;  his  air  of  triumph  betrayed  conclu 
sively  an  absolute  faith  in  his  own  skill.  And  the 
old  servant  could  not  find  the  heart  to  undeceive 
him,  but  left  his  mind  clouded  with  this  last  illu 
sion,  as  if  she  had  been  dealing  with  a  child.  After 
all  the  rose  without  its  perfume  was  a  sufficient 
marvel ;  she  put  it  away  in  water,  crossing  herself 
involuntarily,  as  she  did  so.  While  it  lived,  her 
wholesome  awe  of  it  continued  ;  she  would  not  even 
touch  the  unholy  thing  again,  but  when  it  had  faded 
for  the  second  time,  seizing  the  dried  stalk  with  a 
pair  of  tongs,  at  arm's  length,  she  flung  it  into  the 
fire  ;  then  raked  apart  the  ashes.  They  should  not 
kindle  into  another  life  through  any  fault  of  hers. 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  197 

Winter  came,  and  with  it  the  first  symptoms  of 
the  infirmity  she  feared.  Her  voice  shook  in  an 
annoying  way,  her  step  grew  heavier,  her  wrinkles 
deepened ;  she  compared  herself  to  an  old  witch, 
when  she  looked  in  the  glass.  Her  lightest  house 
hold  care  became  a  burden,  even  grumbling  was  an 
effort.  But  she  toiled  and  scolded  and  drove  her 
bargains  with  unflagging  spirit,  praying  only  that 
death  might  find  her  still  in  the  pious  fury  of  her 
work.  She  was  ready  ;  let  this  hour  be  her  last,  — 
she  wanted  no  interval  of  deplorable  rest,  no  sickly 
folding  of  the  hands. 

Her  master's  future  gave  her  more  concern  than 
ever.  He  had  drawn  very  near,  he  told  her,  to  that 
greatest  of  discoveries  which  had  baffled  him  so 
long.  But  no  further  hint  of  his  revealed  anything 
of  its  scope  or  even  of  its  nature.  Vainly,  she  took 
the  young  student  into  favor,  plying  him  with  wine, 
artfully  leading  him  on  to  gossip  indiscreetly  about 
Maestro  Ambrogio's  affairs ;  and  gaining  only  a  re 
luctant  admission  that  Gentile  was  quite  ignorant 
of  the  possible  result  to  which  their  labors  tended. 
He  performed  his  share  of  them  adroitly,  by  his 
own  showing,  and  slept  soundly  each  night  when 
they  were  over.  But  at  his  return,  he  often  found 
that  the  last  day's  work  had  been  undone.  For 
day  and  night  his  master  seemed  to  toil  incessantly, 
suffering  repeated  discouragements,  but  through 
them  all  upheld  and  strengthened  by  some  wild 
hope  that  he  would  not  explain. 


198  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

One  morning  Gentile  presented  himself  only  to 
be  sent  away  again.  All  that  day  Maestro  Ambro- 
gio  did  no  work  and  spoke  no  word.  Monna  Mo- 
desta  came  and  went,  but  he  never  heeded  her 
until  she  made  a  direct  attack  upon  him  with  in 
trusive  questions,  when  he  shook  his  head  mourn 
fully.  His  eyes  glistened ;  a  tear  trickled  down 
upon  his  beard  ;  she  was  sure,  then,  that  his  experi 
ments  had  failed. 

"  Heaven  help  us  all ! "  she  thought ;  and  clat 
tering  off  to  the  neighboring  church,  she  said  her 
prayers  in  one  of  its  chapels. 

She  heard  him  stirring  in  the  night ;  he  left  his 
room,  his  step  died  away  upon  the  stairs.  She  fol 
lowed,  but  not  softly  enough,  for  at  the  garden 
door,  in  the  dark,  she  found  him  waiting.  She  felt 
his  hand  upon  her  wrist,  and  drew  back,  alarmed. 
But  his  reproof  was  of  the  gentlest. 

"  Why  do  you  get  up  so  early  ?  One  watcher  is 
enough  to  guard  my  house.  Go  to  your  bed,  and 
sleep  ;  it  is  the  best  service  you  can  do  me." 

She  obeyed  him  silently. 

The  next  day,  Maestro  Ambrogio  recalled  his 
student.  The  old  hope  had  revived,  informing  new 
schemes,  inducing  new  tests.  And  as  time  passed, 
as  his  problem  advanced  favorably  toward  its 
mysterious  solution,  the  confidence  daily  growing 
stronger  within  him  shone  through  his  eyes  and 
gave  his  face  the  radiance  of  youth.  He  was  like 
the  fortunate  lover  who  believes  that  some  divinity 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  199 

has  alighted  upon  the  earth  to  walk  hand  in  hand 
with  him  forever. 

At  length,  when  Monna  Modesta  imagined  that 
the  hour  of  triumph  must  be  very  near,  her  master, 
who  so  rarely  stirred  abroad,  suddenly  bade  her 
prepare  him  for  a  long  journey.  In  answer  to  her 
startled  look,  he  told  her  that  all  was  well  with  him  ; 
that  he  had  only  one  venture  left  to  make ;  but  that  he 
dared  not  run  the  extreme  risk  it  involved  without 
first  consulting  the  one  living  man  whose  judgment 
could  be  called  infallible.  This  was  a  famous  Ve 
netian  doctor,  almost  a  century  old,  unimpaired  in 
mind,  but  far  too  feeble  in  body  to  endure  the 
fatigue  of  travel,  which,  therefore,  he  himself  must 
undertake.  He  charged  her  solemnly  to  admit  no 
one,  not  even  Gentile,  to  the  house  during  his  ab 
sence.  The  laboratory  door  he  locked  and  sealed, 
leaving  all  behind  him,  apparently,  except  a  scroll 
of  parchment  easily  to  be  carried  in  the  hand.  The 
time  appointed  for  departure  came  ;  the  horse  stood 
at  the  door,  and  Maestro  Ambrogio  lingering  upon 
the  threshold  gave  his  last  instructions.  Then, 
with  a  smile,  he  added,  — 

"  And  how  shall  I  reward  you  for  so  much  fidel 
ity  ?  What  shall  I  bring  back  from  Venice  to  my 
constant  friend  ? " 

"  Ah,  Signor,  a  kind,  gentle  mistress,  —  only 
that.  Marry  your  wife,  and  bring  her  back  with 
you." 

"  A  wife,  from  Venice  ? "  said  the  doctor,  laugh- 


200  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

ing.  "  Well,  who  knows  ?  I  have  done  stranger 
things.  But,  remember,  I  make  no  promises.  God 
be  with  you,  Modesta  !  " 

"  And  with  you,  Signor.  A  swift  journey,  Maes 
tro  Ambrogio ! " 

So  he  rode  away.  For  many  days  there  was  no 
sign  of  him,  and  she  was  faithful  to  her  trust. 
When  Gentile  demanded  news,  he  found  the  house 
barricaded  as  if  for  a  siege,  and  was  forced  to  hold 
indignant  parley  with  Modesta  through  a  wicket  in 
the  outer  door.  She  bade  him  sing  to  his  lute  and 
not  to  her.  The  great  Leonardo  knocked  once, 
faring  little  better. 

"  What !  Hast  thou  yet  heard  nothing  of  thy 
master  ?  " 

"  Alas,  no,  Signor." 

"  Misericordia  !  Pray  Heaven  that  some  sly  one 
of  thy  sex  may  not  have  beguiled  him  !  " 

"  Pray  Heaven  that  he  be  no  more  a  bachelor ; 
and  good  day  to  you,  Messer  Leonardo." 

At  last,  however,  the  door  swung  open  for  the 
master's  much-desired  return.  He  came,  dressed 
in  gay  colors,  with  a  light  step  and  smiling  face, 
followed  by  two  serving-men  bearing  rich  apparel, 
ribbons,  silks,  and  laces,  to  be  unfolded  and  dis 
played  before  Modesta's  wondering  eyes.  She  tried 
to  speak,  but  wanted  words. 

"  What !  No  welcome  for  me  ?  "  he  cried  mer 
rily.  "  Yet  all  is  as  you  wished  it.  I  come  in  my 
wedding  garments  ;  are  they  not  well  chosen  ?  " 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  201 

"  Heaven  be  praised  for  all  its  mercies !  You 
have  grown  young  again.  But  the  bride,  Signor  ?  " 

"  She  will  follow.  Prepare  a  chamber  for  her 
and  for  these  things." 

"  Eh,  the  waste  of  money !  Look  at  that  bro 
cade  !  What  great  lady  have  you  married  ?  These 
trappings  are  for  a  princess ;  how  is  it  that  your 
wife  will  wear  them  ? " 

"  They  are  not  fine  enough.  Wait,  and  you  will 
see." 

She  set  the  house  in  order  with  much  nervous 
apprehension.  How  should  she  make  room  for 
these  new  fineries  ?  There  was  no  chest  fit  to  hold 
them,  except,  perhaps,  the  splendid  marble  one 
hidden  away  in  her  master's  workshop ;  but  she 
dared  not  ask  him  for  that.  Well,  it  mattered  lit 
tle  ;  no  doubt  the  new  mistress  would  bring  a 
retinue  of  servants  to  undo  any  humble  work  of 
hers  ;  they  would  overrule  her,  —  she  would  count 
for  nothing;  that,  of  course,  was  the  fate  of  age, 
and  she  must  accept  it  cheerfully  ;  she  must  bid 
them  all  good-night,  and  let  the  past  to  which  she 
belonged  enshroud  her  in  its  friendly  shadows. 
All  would  be  for  the  best,  that  promised  a  long  and 
happy  future  to  Maestro  Ambrogio. 

Thus  Modesta  dealt  with  her  misgivings.  But 
the  new  mistress  did  not  come.  Again  the  doctor 
buried  himself  in  the  laboratory,  and  pursued  his 
dreary  studies.  To  all  inquiries  about  his  wife  he 
replied  that  she  was  still  to  be  expected;  but  he 


202  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

fixed  no  day,  no  hour.  Then,  fearing  that  the 
great  lady  might  take  them  by  surprise  in  the 
night,  she  slept  with  a  lighted  lamp  near  her  bed 
side,  to  wake  continually,  and  strain  her  ears  at 
the  faintest  sound.  But  her  master  discovered 
this,  and  rebuked  her  almost  sternly  for  excess  of 
zeal.  So  she  resumed  her  former  habits,  asked  no 
more  questions,  left  events  to  wait  upon  them 
selves,  the  stars  to  rise  and  set  as  they  would,  un 
noted  ;  till  the  winter  had  worn  away. 

The  doctor's  cellar  contained  a  few  bottles  of  old 
wine,  lying  there  in  wait  for  rare  occasions.  One 
evening  of  the  early  spring-time,  he  brought  out 
from  this  dusty  ambush  a  small  flask,  and  uncork 
ing  it  with  deliberation,  he  called  for  glasses.  All 
that  day  he  had  been  in  a  state  of  feverish  disturb 
ance,  and  his  hand  shook  now.  The  golden  liquor 
leaped  and  sparkled  in  a  most  inviting  way ;  and 
Monna  Modesta,  yielding  readily  to  temptation, 
took  the  glass  he  offered ;  likewise  a  second,  which 
he  pressed  upon  her.  She  wondered  what  silent 
toast  they  could  be  drinking,  —  for  this,  assuredly, 
was  a  kind  of  ceremonial.  But  she  had  grown  too 
old  for  such  indulgences.  The  wine  made  her 
strangely  drowsy.  Was  there  mischief  in  it  ?  Why 
had  she  taken  so  much  ?  Wliy  had  she  touched  it 
at  all  ?  She  went  to  her  room,  repenting  of  this 
childish  folly,  and  slept  profoundly  the  sleep  of 
childhood  throughout  the  night,  far  on  into  the 
morning  hours. 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  203 

The  flood  of  sunshine  to  which  she  woke  gave 
its  own  startling  evidence  of  time  unduly  wasted ; 
but  even  this  reproachful  glare  had  failed  to  act 
upon  her  sluggish  senses.  That  worthless  insect, 
Gentile,  clamored  at  her  door ;  and  his  voice  rang 
with  delight  at  the  detection  of  her  grievous  lapse 
in  duty. 

"  Modesta  !  Monna  Modesta  !  Wake,  and  find 
your  wits !  My  master's  wife  has  come  from 
Venice,  and  no  one  stirs  a  finger  to  receive  her. 
Do  you  sleep  all  night  and  all  day  too  ? " 

"  Beast !  "  she  cried  in  a  passion.  "  Have  done 
with  bellowing,  and  mend  your  manners.  When 
I  sleep  at  all,  it  is  with  my  eyes  open.  Go  back 
and  tell  them  I  '11  come  presently." 

Below,  in  the  state  apartment  long  ago  made 
ready  for  this  festal  day,  the  old  servant  found 
Maestro  Ambrogio  in  his  brightest  colors,  but 
formal  and  solemn  as  a  sentinel ;  and  there  too 
on  a  low  couch  lay  the  noble  lady,  sleeping. 

How  young,  how  fair  she  was !  As  sweet,  as 
simple  in  her  beauty  as  the  Virgin  of  the  Annun- 
ziata's  shrine  !  Yet  these  soft  features  were  a-g]ow 
with  life,  these  full,  red  lips  were  not  divine,  but 
exquisitely  human.  About  her  head  she  had  bound 
a  veil,  through  which  her  heavy  coils  of  hair  showed 
gleams  of  reddish  gold ;  and  she  had  put  on  the 
rich,  brocaded  garment  brought  from  Venice,  worth 
a  fortune  in  quattrini.  It  seemed,  in  truth,  not 
fine  enough  ;  it  should  have  been  sown  with  jewels. 


204  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

But  her  only  ornament  was  a  slender  golden  thread 
of  curious  design,  clasping  one  wrist. 

She  moved  a  little,  smiling  in  her  sleep  ;  and 
the  smile  was  mysterious,  unaccountable,  perplex 
ing  as  the  smile  of  archaic  sculpture,  —  with  some 
thing  of  malice  in  it,  as  though  the  thought  behind, 
concealed  rather  than  expressed,  were  not  unmixed 
with  evil.  So  the  sirens  must  have  smiled  when 
the  bark  foundered,  and  the  poor  mariner  went 
unresisting  to  his  death,  happy  in  that  inexplicable 
joy,  —  perhaps  exultant  even, —  with  the  look  upon 
his  face  that  Maestro  Ambrogio's  now  wore. 

"  See  !  "  he  murmured.  "  Was  not  this  worth 
years  of  loneliness  ?  Could  one  have  better  fortune, 
even  in  his  dreams  ?  " 

But  Modesta  trembled  with  a  vague  distrust,  as 
if  some  disaster  were  impending.  The  smile  was 
hateful  to  her. 

"  Ah,  Signer,"  she  sighed,  "is  that  my  mistress?" 

Her  master  had  already  turned  away,  rapt 
in  his  dream,  and  sheltered  by  it  from  outward 
influences. 

"  lovina !  "  he  called  softly.     « lovina !  " 

Then  the  sleeper  woke.  He  caught  her  hands 
and  kissed  them,  drawing  her  toward  him  from 
the  couch,  folding  in  his  arms  the  lovely  presence 
that  had  the  smile  of  absence  in  it  still. 

The  light  in  her  clear  gray  eyes,  however,  was 
reassuring.  Her  voice  too  was  a  pleasant  one, 
though  it  uttered  strange  words  which  Modesta 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  205 

could  not  understand ;  but  her  master  answered 
them  in  the  same  tongue.  The  new  mistress  looked 
wonderingly  yet  not  unkindly  upon  the  faithful 
servant.  It  appeared  from  what  was  said  that  she 
had  come  alone,  with  no  train  of  attendants  to  be 
taught  their  duties.  Modesta  would  have  her  own 
way  to  all  intents  and  purposes ;  would  still  reign 
supreme  in  the  market-place,  be  Monna  Modesta, 
padrona  delta  casa,  to  them  all.  This  cheering 
reflection  did  away  with  presentiments  for  the 
time  being.  The  household  affairs  went  on  that 
day  as  usual ;  only  that  sometimes  in  the  pauses 
of  work  Modesta  shook  her  head,  and  whispered 
to  herself  doubtfully,  — 

"  lovina  !  I  do  not  like  it ;  it  is  a  pagan  name." 
She  shook  her  head  in  the  same  discontented 
fashion  over  many  things  that  happened  in  the 
following  days.  As  might  have  been  expected, 
her  master  led,  at  first,  a  life  of  complete  infatua 
tion.  Then  he  resumed  his  studies,  but  with  half 
a  heart,  interrupting  them  under  the  smallest 
pretext  to  dance  attendance  on  the  languid  lady 
whose  slave  he  had  become.  To  show  his  wife  a 
flower  in  the  garden,  to  read  her  a  line  of  Tuscan 
verse  that  should  give  her  in  one  breath  a  better 
knowledge  of  his  love  and  of  his  language,  were 
tasks  of  more  importance  than  any  prescribed  to 
him  in  those  ponderous  books  of  his.  This,  of 
course,  was  commendable  and  proper ;  one  pardons, 
nay,  exacts  some  such  parade  of  weakness  in  the 


206  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

manners  of  a  bridegroom.  It  was  in  the  attitude 
of  her  mistress  that  Modesta  found  the  first  cause 
for  complaint.  Clearly,  Maestro  Ambrogio's  de 
votion  was  wholly  wasted ;  day  by  day  he  squan 
dered  it,  like  the  money  woven  into  the  embroidered 
garments  worn  by  his  foreign  princess,  who  either 
had  no  heart  to  give  him  in  return,  or  had  chosen 
to  withhold  her  gift.  Her  thoughts  seemed  always 
on  the  wing.  The  dragon-fly,  darting  to  and  fro 
among  the  leaves,  could  win  her  smite  as  easily  as 
the  poor  man's  fondest  word.  She  was  no  happier 
for  his  approach ;  her  steel-gray  eyes  never  looked 
upon  him  tenderly.  At  what,  then,  was  she  always 
smiling  ?  At  him,  perhaps  ;  not  with  him,  surely. 
For  all  his  kindness  must  have  failed  to  touch  her, 
since  she  took  it  so  impassively,  —  sometimes,  in 
deed,  as  if  she  hardly  knew  that  he  was  at  her  side. 
Ah !  All  men  were  alike,  and  all  were  fools ! 
It  needed  no  spark  of  feeling  to  bewitch  them, 
not  even  a  pretence  of  it.  Here  was  Gentile,  now, 
openly  worshipping  this  same  idol  with  eager  eyes. 
A  stray  glance  from  her  would  upset  him  for  a 
whole  day.  And  Messer  Leonardo  too  !  At  the 
first  sight  of  her  face  his  admiration  burst  forth 
in  a  torrent  of  superlatives.  She  smiled  upon  him ; 
he  laughed,  and  talked  of  other  things  ;  but  his 
eyes  never  left  her.  He  came  again,  and  asked 
that  she  might  sit  to  him  ;  and  when  permission 
was  refused,  almost  on  his  knees,  he  begged,  im 
plored  Maestro  Ambrogio  to  grant  it.  The  smile 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  207 

haunted  him,  he  said,  impelling  him  to  paint  it 
from  memory  if  not  from  life  ;  its  perfect  beauty 
existed  for  no  day,  no  generation,  but  must  be 
fixed  and  made  imperishable  for  all  to  know  until 
the  end  of  time.  Without  this  attempt,  he  should 
hold  himself  false  to  the  divine  art  he  served ;  and 
with  all  the  success  he  had  achieved,  with  laurels 
heaped  on  laurels  in  the  future,  hereafter  ages 
would  hold  him  forever  miserable,  if  this  duty  to 
the  world  went  unfulfilled,  if,  for  want  of  means  or 
want  of  inspiration,  he  had  failed  on  earth  to  per 
petuate  that  faultless  smile. 

These  entreaties  in  the  end  prevailed.  The 
painter  began  upon  his  first  sketch,  —  a  drawing 
in  red  chalk,  at  which  he  worked  for  days,  but  only 
to  destroy  it.  The  pose  was  wrong,  he  explained, 
he  must  try  another ;  and  this  too  came  to  noth 
ing.  He  lamented  bitterly  his  own  incompetence. 
Never  had  subject  thwarted  him  like  this ;  always 
the  look  he  wanted  was  not  there.  That  elusive 
smile  played  tricks  with  him ;  its  lovely  lines  would 
not  be  caught,  but  changed  their  places  before  he 
could  reproduce  them.  How  to  do  her  justice  ? 
How  to  accomplish  what  he  already  feared  would 
prove  impossible  ?  To  control  that  look  awhile, 
he  must  control  the  sitter's  mind ;  he  must  have 
music,  some  sweet,  delightful  strain  to  charm  her 
into  subjection  to  his  will.  So  Gentile  brought 
his  lute  only  too  readily,  and  played  to  them,  while 
a  new  drawing  was  begun,  and  all  went  well  with  it. 


208  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

But  all  went  far  from  well  with  Maestro  Am- 
brogio.  Of  late  he  had  grown  moody  and  de 
spondent,  —  most  unlike  himself.  And  now,  to-day, 
he  left  his  furnace  to  pace  aimlessly  back  and  forth 
in  one  of  the  garden-paths,  —  that  farthest  away 
from  the  great  hall  of  the  house,  where  the  painter 
had  set  up  his  easel  near  an  open  window,  through 
which  Gentile's  music  and  even  Messer  Leonardo's 
progress  could  be  followed.  For  now  and  then, 
the  master  spoke  a  word  of  satisfaction,  in  his  own 
encouragement ;  he  had  found  the  way  at  last ; 
here  was  success  indeed.  But  the  master  of  the 
house  only  sighed  when  he  heard  this,  and  his 
step  grew  heavier  and  more  uncertain,  as  though 
a  leaden- clog  were  dragging  at  his  heels. 

What  weight  of  sorrow  thus  depressed  him  ? 
Old  Modesta  knew  him  too  well,  had  watched  him 
too  closely  not  to  have  divined  it.  All  was  plain 
enough.  The  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes ;  he 
had  come  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  his  choice,  to 
distrust  the  smile  of  the  enchantress,  and  with 
reason.  In  one  fatal  cast,  rashly  made,  he  had 
flung  away  his  life ;  and  now  he  repented  his  rash 
ness.  The  poor  serving-woman,  who  loved  him 
better  than  she  loved  herself,  looked  at  him  and 
longed  to  help  him,  but  could  not  find  the  way. 
What  comfort  had  she  to  offer  ?  If  she  spoke, 
what  good  would  her  words  do  ?  This,  —  that  he 
would  be  forced  to  answer  them  ;  and  if  he  did  not 
speak,  his  heart  would  surely  break.  So,  praying 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  209 

Heaven  to  guide  her,  she  went  out  and  stopped 
him  in  his  walk. 

"  My  master,"  she  began  ;  "  never  have  I  seen  you 
so  unhappy.  What  is  it  now  that  troubles  you  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  with  shining  eyes,  dry  and 
tearless. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  —  "nothing." 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  my  poor  mas 
ter  ! "  she  sighed  mournfully.  But  he  brushed  by 
her,  and  was  gone  again,  muttering  to  himself. 

"  My  wife  !  "  she  heard  him  say. 

Then  there  came  a  shout  of  triumph,  and  the 
painter  dashed  out  upon  them  with  the  drawing  in 
his  hand. 

"  See  !  "  he  cried.  "  I  have  surpassed  myself. 
Who  will  dare  to  tell  me  this  is  not  worthy  of 
her  ? " 

In  that  glowing  moment  of  success  he  had  no 
thought  beyond  his  work.  The  doctor  took  the 
paper,  while  Leonardo,  passing  behind  him  and 
leaning  upon  his  shoulder,  failed  to  note  with 
what  trouble  he  regarded  it. 

Modesta  looked  on  silently.  They  made  a  pic 
ture  in  themselves  against  a  background  of  the 
vine-leaves,  as  if  they  had  been  posed  for  embodi 
ments  of  light  and  darkness.  Light  gleamed  in 
the  painter's  rose-hucd  silken  mantle,  in  his  flushed 
cheek,  his  joyous  eyes.  He  was  all  aflame.  In  the 
other  all  was  clouded,  cold. 

But  the  hand  of  genius  has  a  strength  that  can- 

14 


210  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

not  be  resisted ;  and  it  held  her  master  now. 
Slowly  the  light  illumined  him.  His  face  bright 
ened,  until  it  reflected  the  painter's  look  of 
exultation. 

"  It  is  wonderful ! "  he  whispered. 

"  Caro  mio ! "  said  that  other  master  there  be 
hind  him.  "  This  is  a  fortunate  hour  for  us  both  ; 
we  must  not  let  it  slip.  I  will  go  home  and  get 
my  colors ;  then  make  the  portrait,  —  finish  it, 
while  the  light  lasts.  Think,  amico :  this  day's 
work  will  hang  upon  some  wall  in  Florence  ages 
hence,  when  we  are  only  memories ;  and  all  the 
painters  of  the  world  will  bow  before  it.  They 
will  say :  '  See  how  one  brushmark,  tracing  out  a 
woman's  smile,  gave  poor  Da  Vinci  his  undying 
fame!  Look  at  Leonardo's  masterpiece,  —  lovina, 
Maestro  Ambrogio's  wife ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  returned  the  doctor,  eagerly.  "The  col 
ors, —  bring  the  colors,  noble  Leonardo." 

The  painter  hurried  off,  catching  as  he  went  a 
note  of  laughing  music,  and  singing  his  own  song 
to  it.  For  in  the  house  Gentile's  lute  played  on. 

Then,  as  the  doctor  listened,  his  face  grew  dull 
and  grave  again.  The  old  dark  thought  possessed 
him  wholly.  The  lovely  drawing  slipped  from  his 
hand,  falling  face  downward  in  the  earth.  He  let 
it  lie  there,  and  turning  away,  he  flung  himself 
upon  one  of  the  garden-benches,  hiding  his  own 
face. 

The  silent  witness,  whom  he  had  forgotten,  now 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  211 

forgot  herself.  Overcome  with  his  despair,  she 
knew  neither  what  she  said  nor  what  she  did,  but 
rushing  forward,  knelt  beside  him,  and  poured  out 
her  inmost  soul  in  a  flood  of  unconsidered  words. 

"  Master,  why  did  you  marry  her  ?  She  has 
brought  ruin  upon  the  house  ;  she  cares  for  nothing 
that  is  good  ;  she  never  goes  to  church,  never  says 
a  prayer ;  she  is  a  pagan,  a  demon.  How  has  she 
ensnared  you  ? " 

"  Modesta,  Modesta !     What  words  are  these  ? " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  —  I  cannot  bear  it  longer. 
Why  did  you  go  so  far  to  bring  her  home  ?  She 
is  not  like  other  women.  Maestro  mio,  she  has  no 
heart,  no  tenderness.  She  is  like  the  flower  that 
sprung  out  of  the  ashes,  —  beautiful,  without  its 
fragrance." 

She  had  risen  nearly  to  her  feet  in  her  excite 
ment  ;  but  Maestro  Ambrogio  now  caught  her  by 
the  wrist,  and  forced  her  back  upon  her  knees. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Forgive  me,  Master ;  I  forgot  —  " 

"  Speak  ! "  he  continued  sharply.  "  What  flower 
do  you  mean  ? " 

"The  rose,"  replied  Modesta,  —  "the  dead  rose 
that  seemed  to  live  again.  Signer,  it  was  not  life, 
for  life  has  sweetness  in  it.  And  she  has  none,  — 
she  has  no  feeling,  no  kindness  in  her.  She  is  like 
the  rose." 

As  though  the  woman  had  stabbed  him  to  the 
heart,  he  released  her  with  a  moan  of  anguish. 


212  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Oh,  had  I  known  ! "  he  cried  in  a  broken  voice. 
"  Of  all  men  that  ever  breathed  I  am  the  most 
pitiable.  It  is  true,  —  it  is  true.  She  is  like  the 
rose." 

A  light  breeze  caught  the  fallen  paper,  which 
fluttered  to  his  feet.  He  stooped  for  the  master's 
handiwork,  considered  it  one  moment,  then  tore  it 
up,  and  gave  it  to  the  winds  again,  —  not  angrily, 
but  deliberately,  with  a  look  and  gesture  of  the 
deepest  sorrow. 

Modesta  nodded  approvingly ;  then  her  eyes 
flashed.  He  should  do  more  than  this ;  such  calm 
submission  was  intolerable. 

"  Listen  !  "  she  cried.  "  My  lady  must  have  music. 
What  cares  she  for  your  unhappiness  ?  The  boy 
amuses  her,  and  she  smiles  upon  him.  Ay !  Go 
on  with  it ;  play  and  sing  to  her,  do  !  " 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken  when  the  music 
stopped.  The  doctor  rose  and  moved  slowly  toward 
the  house  without  an  answer  to  Modesta,  who,  ac 
cepting  the  silent  rebuke,  followed  him  meekly, 
but  only  to  the  window. 

The  lute  lay  upon  the  floor.  There  was  the 
painter's  seat,  there  his  empty  easel ;  and  beyond, 
where  he  had  posed  her,  half  reclined  the  lovely 
figure  he  longed  to  make  immortal.  But  now  Gen 
tile  knelt  beside  her,  drew  her  face  down  to  his 
and  kissed  it ;  and  she  permitted  this.  She  did  not 
draw  away ;  the  golden  ornament  at  her  wrist 
shone  through  his  dark  curls,  while  she  smoothed 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  213 

the  hair  upon  his  temples,  idly  but  gently.  In 
truth,  the  boy  amused  her,  and  she  smiled  upon 
him. 

A  shadow  came  between  them  and  the  sunlight. 
With  a  cry  of  terror  Gentile  fled,  unregarded.  For 
Maestro  Ambrogio  went  directly  to  his  wife,  and 
took  her  hand. 

"  Come ! "  he  said  gravely,  in  a  tone  of  pity 
rather  than  of  remonstrance.  "  Come  with  me  !  " 

She  made  no  effort  to  resist  him ;  and  with  a 
firm  step  he  led  her  out  into  the  garden.  While 
they  crossed  it,  all  the  sunshine  seemed  to  come 
from  her.  She  caught  its  glory  like  a  mirror,  and 
gave  it  back  in  playful  gleams ;  then  took  it  all 
away  in  one  last  radiant  smile,  when  they  passed 
into  the  laboratory  and  the  door  shut  behind  them. 
She  had  outdone  the  flowers  ;  they  looked  cold  and 
colorless.  The  perfect  moment  of  the  day  had 
passed.  The  hours  now  could  only  droop  and 
die. 

What  stillness  in  the  house !  The  mute,  un 
bidden  guest,  misfortune,  had  chosen  it  for  his 
abode.  Modesta  barred  the  great  door,  and  when 
the  painter  came  she  met  him  at  the  wicket,  to  put 
him  off  until  the  morrow  with  poor  excuses.  He 
entreated,  threatened  her  ineffectually.  He  begged 
at  least  to  have  his  drawing,  but  she  denied  him 
even  that ;  she  dared  not  tell  him  it  had  been  de 
stroyed.  One  word  answered  everything.  To 
morrow  he  should  see  her  master;  all  would 


214  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

explain  itself,  all  come  right  to-morrow.  And 
while  he  protested,  she  closed  the  loop-hole  in  his 
face. 

He  went  away  and  did  not  come  again.  There 
was  no  further  disturbance  from  without ;  even  the 
distant  rumors  of  the  city  sunk  to  rest.  The  great 
blue  silence  overhead  deepened  and  faded  sombrely 
into  the  chilling  pallor  of  the  stars.  Below,  in  the 
garden,  the  fireflies  glanced  about,  the  crickets 
droned,  —  no  other  sound  broke  in  upon  the  quiet 
of  the  night ;  no  sign  of  life,  no  movement  from  the 
workshop ;  there  too  all  was  black  and  still. 

Bolt  upright  in  her  chair,  hour  by  hour,  Modesta 
sat  and  told  her  beads.  From  intervals  of  uneasy 
slumber  in  which  she  heard  her  master's  voice  call 
ing  her,  she  started  up  to  listen  breathlessly,  to 
drop  back  and  pray  herself  to  sleep  again.  At  last 
she  felt  sure  that  she  had  not  been  dreaming. 
"  Modesta !  Modesta ! "  the  cry  of  distress  came 
sharply  and  clearly,  bringing  her  to  her  feet  with 
an  answering  cry.  But  now  the  cool,  gray  tint  of 
morning  met  her  eyes.  The  drowsy  notes  of  night 
were  hushed.  She  could  hear  the  twitter  of  the 
waking  swallows,  but  nothing  else. 

She  went  to  the  laboratory  door,  and  knocked 
repeatedly,  then  tried  the  latch ;  it  yielded,  and 
she  stood  for  the  first  time  on  that  forbidden 
ground. 

The  place  was  like  some  dream  of  a  disordered 
mind.  Piles  of  mouldy  books ;  loose  parchment 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  215 

leaves,  yellow  and  illegible ;  flasks  of  metal,  in- 
crusted  and  corroded  into  fantastic  shapes  and 
colors ;  swollen  monsters  of  glass  with  slender 
necks,  emitting  dull  phosphoric  light,  or  bearing 
old  stains  of  substances  long  since  distilled ;  mor 
tars,  and  heaps  of  pounded  drugs ;  fossils  and 
charts,  and  livid  specimens  in  bottles, — these  things 
and  more  were  huddled  together  in  motley  groups, 
or  flung  aside  neglected.  And  in  the  midst  of  all, 
by  the  door  of  the  furnace,  which  was  choked  with 
dying  embers,  crouched  Maestro  Ambrogio. 

He  seemed  to  have  dropped  asleep  with  his  hand 
upon  the  bellows  ;  they  had  fallen  close  beside  him. 
The  air  of  the  room  was  full  of  dust,  through 
which  Modesta  made  her  way  with  timid  steps, 
hesitating  to  disturb  her  master,  shrinking  from  the 
surrounding  objects,  yet  eager  to  examine  them. 
She  stopped  half  stifled,  drew  back  for  freer  breath, 
returned,  went  on.  She  could  see  more  clearly 
now.  Maestro  Ambrogio  was  alone.  Where  then 
was  her  mistress  ?  What  had  he  done  with  her  ? 
At  the  form  into  which  the  question  shaped  itself 
Modesta  stood  still,  trembling. 

Here,  close  by,  was  the  carved  chest  which  had 
aroused  her  curiosity  long  ago.  At  that  moment, 
through  the  little  window  to  which  she  had  climbed 
in  former  days,  the  first  sunbeams  slanted  down. 
She  saw  at  her  feet  a  stone  tablet,  rudely  inscribed 
with  records  of  a  dead  people.  She  remembered 
others  like  it,  unearthed  among  her  own  moun- 


216  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

tains  ;  and  on  the  lid  of  the  coffer  at  her  side,  she 
saw  a  sculptured  figure,  in  high  relief,  perfect  in 
form  and  feature,  —  the  graven  image  of  the  stran 
ger  who  had  brought  ill  luck  upon  the  house,  the 
woman  with  the  pagan  name. 

There  she  lay  asleep,  as  Modesta  had  first  seen 
her,  with  the  clinging  garment,  the  veil  about  her 
head,  the  ornament  at  her  wrist ;  and  her  lips  had 
the  same  enchanting  smile  upon  them, —  it  was 
hard  to  believe  that  they  were  cut  in  alabaster. 
This  seemed  to  be  a  living  statue  of  one  who  in 
life  had  only  seemed  to  live. 

What  did  the  chest  hold  ?  Modesta  must  know 
that ;  now  was  the  very  time.  She  tugged  at  the 
lid  with  all  her  might,  but  could  not  raise  it. 
Slowly,  without  noise  she  pushed  and  pushed  again, 
sliding  it  aside.  Ashes  there,  and  nothing  else,  — 
ashes,  fine  as  dust ;  stay,  something  more,  on 
which  the  sun's  rays  glittered.  It  was  the  twisted 
thread  of  gold  that  Maestro  Ambrogio's  wife  had 
worn. 

With  a  cry  Modesta  staggered  back ;  then,  to 
save  herself,  caught  at  the  alabaster  cover  which 
toppled  and  fell,  dashed  into  a  thousand  pieces. 
Dust  and  ashes  mingling  made  a  thicker  cloud. 
Life  woke  in  the  room.  Mice  scampered  across  it, 
squeaking ;  spiders  fled  to  hide  themselves ;  a  bat 
flew  wildly  in  and  out  of  the  dark  corners.  The 
embers  of  the  furnace  rattled  down,  and  flickered 
into  flame ;  while  poor  Modesta  waited  with  down- 


MAESTRO  AMBROGIO.  217 

cast  eyes  for  her  master's  angry  word.  It  did  not 
come,  and  she  looked  up.  The  firelight  flashed 
upon  his  face.  It  was  a  death-mask.  The  days 
of  his  reproof  were  over.  All  the  vexations  of  the 
world  were  done  for  him. 

Modesta  returned  to  her  native  hills  of  the 
Mugello,  and  for  many  winters  more  her  master's 
dead  face  haunted  her,  as  the  look  he  could  never 
catch  haunted  the  great  painter  all  his  life.  It 
was  a  life  of  wandering,  and  he  died  in  France 
years  afterward.  The  picture  he  longed  to  make 
was  never  finished ;  but  between  him  and  every 
woman's  face  he  painted  came  that  mysterious 
remembrance,  which,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  brush 
recorded.  The  world  saw  it,  named  it,  handed 
down  the  name ;  and  to  this  day,  we  know  it  as 
the  smile  of  Leonardo. 


218  DAY  AND   NIGHT  STORIES. 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS. 

ON  the  longest  day  in  one  of  these  later  years 
whose  wine  is  not  yet  old  enough  to  drink, 
whose  history  is  still  too  recent  to  record,  the  an 
cient  town  of  Mayence  lay  asleep  in  that  radiant 
sunshine  which,  perhaps  even  more  than  its  former 
commercial  prosperity,  may  have  given  it  the  name 
of  "golden."  The  wide  Gutenberg-Platz  was  a 
blinding  desert,  with  no  shelter  anywhere  for  man 
or  beast ;  and  Thorwaldsen's  statue  of  the  good 
printer  looked  parched  and  dry  as  the  dusty  laurel- 
wreath  bound  about  his  head  at  the  last  anniver 
sary  ceremonial  and  still  clinging  there.  The 
white  walls  of  the  theatre  turned  toward  him  vast 
posters,  in  the  type  of  his  invention,  hopelessly  out 
of  date.  Its  doors  were  closed  indefinitely.  Even 
the  Cafci  de  Paris  was  silent  and  empty,  but  for  its 
attendants  and  their  presiding  divinity,  enshrined 
at  her  high  desk  and  dozing  behind  her  fan.  The 
noonday  glare  had  laid  upon  the  place  a  potent 
spell  which  only  far-reaching  shadows  could 
remove. 

Just  beyond  the  theatre,  however,  in  the  little 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    219 

square  of  the  Triton,  it  is  always  possible  to  draw  a 
breath.  There  the  boughs  of  the  clipped  lindens 
cast  perpetual  shade,  with  at  least  a  look  of  re 
freshment  in  it.  The  fountain  spouts  and  splashes 
and  flings  its  foam-wreath  down  among  the  flowers, 
that  thrive  and  blossom  in  colors  which  elsewhere 
would  be  uncomfortably  bright.  Midsummer  in  its 
fiercest  mood  can  only  salute  that  merry  water-god 
with  lowered  lance,  and  leave  him  master  of  the 
field.  So  the  townsman  smiles  upon  him  gratefully 
in  a  leisure  moment,  and  drinks  deep  to  him  at 
some  Brauerei,  in  draughts  that  have  their  foam- 
wreaths  too.  And  the  stranger  with  time  at  his 
command  lingers  on  to  eye  the  water  wistfully  ; 
while  the  Kellner  forgets  to  be  alert,  but  leans 
against  the  door-post,  limp,  expressionless ;  and 
mine  host  fills  his  pipe,  with  a  sigh  of  regret  for 
the  busy  winter,  as  he  wonders  how  long  he  has 
been  reading  his  newspaper  of  yesterday  upside 
down. 

The  only  consumer  of  beer  to  be  seen  in  the 
Triton-Platz  on  this  particular  afternoon  was  a 
pallid  youth,  whose  looks,  to  put  the  adverse  judg 
ment  mildly,  told  but  little  in  his  favor.  His  yel 
low  hair,  tangled  and  neglected,  had  grown  much 
too  long.  His  beard,  also  untrimmed,  served  no 
ornamental  purpose,  and  was  so  thin  and  colorless 
that  it  did  not  even  conceal  the  extreme  plainness 
of  his  features.  His  broad-brimmed  hat  of  soft 
felt  and  his  long  coat,  unfashionably  cut,  had  once 


220  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

been  dyed  black,  but  were  now  threadbare.  He 
looked  unkempt,  uncouth,  and  rusty,  even  to  the 
worn-out  clumsy  shoes  ;  and  the  spectacles,  through 
which  his  watery  blue  eyes  gained  all  their  reflec 
tions  of  the  universe,  gave  his  face  the  blank,  for 
bidding  cast  of  an  owl's  in  the  daytime.  The  brain 
behind  it  might  well  be  a  treasure-house  of  learn 
ing,  but  the  medium  of  defence  was  apparently  so 
dull  and  impenetrable  that  no  chance  observer 
would  have  cared  to  make  an  attack  upon  it.  A 
blue  cotton  umbrella  and  a  shabby  knapsack,  hollow 
in  its  folds,  completed  the  accoutrements  of  this 
odd  soldier  of  fortune,  who,  whether  sage  or  pedant, 
had  nothing  of  the  personal  charm  that  means 
more  than  half  the  battle  for  such  empty  honors 
as  the  world  can  give. 

But  within  us  all  lurks  that  unknown  quantity 
the  world  cannot  gauge,  whose  exact  dimensions 
remain  a  mystery  even  to  ourselves.  And  this 
shy,  negative  personage,  distinguished  solely  by  his 
name  of  Einhard  Becker,  could  display,  in  critical 
moments,  a  trembling  resolution  akin  to  heroism, 
—  like  that  of  the  fighting  unit  who  longs  to  run 
away,  but  whose  spirit  keeps  his  face  to  the  music. 
The  poor  student  —  for  such  at  least  he  surely  was 
—  had  faced  his  music  more  than  once  to  find  it 
singularly  discordant.  And  now  again,  his  spirit 
was  sorely  tried. 

He  was  a  native  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  —  the 
old   free   town    of   which   Heine  has    left    a    fond 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    221 

remembrance  in  the  saddest  poem  of  all  that  his 
sad  song-book  holds  :  — 

"  Frankfurt,  du  hegst  viel  Narrn  und  Bosewichter, 
Doch  lieb'  ich  dich,  du  gabst  dem  deutschen  Land 
Manch  guten  Kaiser  und  den  besten  Dichter, 
Und  hist  die  Stadt  wo  ich  die  Holde  fand." 

"  Many  good  emperors,"  of  whom  the  first  was 
Charlemagne.  But  if  any  drop  of  imperial  blood 
diffused  itself  in  Einhard  Becker's  veins,  he  was 
unaware  of  it.  Though  he  had  lost  his  parents  so 
early  in  life  that  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  have 
known  them,  he  did  not  lack  abundant  proof  of 
his  humble  origin.  A  crabbed  old  uncle,  Jacob 
Koberstein  the  saddler,  had  taken  possession  of  the 
orphan  boy,  rearing  him  as  his  apprentice,  with  a 
certain  rough  fidelity.  According  to  this  high  au 
thority  the  elder  Becker  had  been  a  good-for-noth 
ing,  whom  the  mother,  Koberstein's  sister,  had 
persisted  in  marrying  out  of  pure  caprice.  She 
had  been  told  often  enough  that  no  good  would 
come  of  such  a  marriage ;  well,  no  good  had  come 
of  it,  as  any  one  could  see  with  half  an  eye.  The 
case  was  always  closed  by  this  emphatic  statement, 
which  a  significant  glance  at  Einhard  made  doubly 
impressive  ;  and  the  boy  would  then  be  told  to  put 
up  the  shutters  carefully,  and  to  remember  that 
his  uncle  was  one  of  the  best  and  thriftiest  men  in 
Frankfort.  Einhard  believed,  of  course,  what  was 
repeated  in  the  same  straightforward  terms  on 
almost  every  day  of  his  life  ;  yet  for  some  ancestral 


222  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

sin  he  had  been  cursed  with  a  soul  above  leather  ; 
and  as  he  grew  up,  he  became  more  and  more 
dreamy  and  unpractical,  living  in  a  world  of  his 
own  creation,  far  removed  from  the  bustling,  trade- 
haunted  Zeil  of  his  daily  walks,  and  evolved  from 
the  text  of  all  the  books  that  came  in  his  way. 
Near  his  uncle's  shop,  a  dealer  in  antiquities  had  a 
cellar  stored  with  musty  volumes,  which  the  boy 
was  allowed  to  turn  over  in  his  spare  moments  ; 
sometimes  too  he  obtained  permission  to  carry 
them  home  for  stealthy  reading  in  the  watches  of 
the  night  by  the  flame  of  a  candle-end.  The  anti 
quarian  had  a  charitable  heart,  and  taking  pity 
upon  Einhard's  hunger  for  mental  improvement, 
trusted  him  in  this  manner  even  with  his  rarest 
treasures,  entirely  confident  that  his  trust  would 
never  be  betrayed.  For  Einhard  had,  from  the 
first,  shown  something  more  than  the  scholar's 
reverence,  and  he  dealt  with  each  leaf  as  tenderly 
as  though  it  were  composed  of  golden  tissue.  Its 
lines  to  him  were  lines  of  light,  shining  out  upon  him 
from  the  sunny  realms  of  poetry  and  romance.  He 
slept  to  walk  hand  in  hand  with  gods  and  heroes  ; 
and  even  the  trials  of  the  day  he  learned  to  endure 
patiently  for  the  sake  of  what  the  night  would  bring. 
His  uncle  Koberstein  had  one  child,  a  daughter, 
who  seemed  to  Einhard's  boyish  fancy  the  embodi 
ment  of  all  that  was  good  and  beautiful.  In  point 
of  fact  his  cousin  Minna's  black  eyes  and  rosy 
cheeks,  in  all  their  freshness  of  youth,  were  sum- 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    223 

ciently  prepossessing  ;  but  she  had  a  high  temper 
and  a  will  of  her  own,  and  was  a  thorough  Kober- 
stein,  the  neighbors  said,  in  a  tone  which  implied 
something  the  reverse  of  complimentary.  To  Bin- 
hard,  however,  she  always  tried  to  appear  at  her 
best.  Her  way  was  his  way,  in  the  first  place  ;  then 
he  amused  her  too.  Behind  the  house  there  was 
a  scrap  of  garden,  where  they  would  sometimes  sit 
in  the  twilight,  while  he  told  her  tales  out  of  his 
wonderful  books,  to  which  she  listened  graciously. 
Once  he  made  a  story  of  his  own,  and  told  her 
that ;  and  she  thought  it  better  than  all  the  others. 
How  could  he  help  liking  her  ?  Once  again,  in  his 
talk,  he  busied  himself  all  the  while  with  the  cut 
ting  of  their  initials,  interlaced,  on  the  bench  be 
tween  them.  Then  she  called  for  the  knife,  and 
hacked  away  at  the  wood  unmercifully,  obliterating 
the  letters.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  he  liked  her  all 
the  more  for  that.  Who  can  tell  ? 

Years  went  by.  The  city  flourished  as  its  trade 
increased;  the  sun  of  prosperity  shone  upon  the 
house  of  Koberstein.  A  third  pair  of  hands  was 
needed  there,  and  young  Moritz  Lahn,  the  butcher's 
son,  entered  upon  his  term  of  service.  The  new 
apprentice,  though  Einhard's  junior  by  a  year  or 
two,  was  a  stout,  active  lad,  with  a  keen  eye  for 
his  own  advancement,  and  with  little  heart  and 
less  conscience.  He  lost  no  time  in  worming  him 
self  into  old  Jacob's  good  graces,  and  as  it  pleased 
Minna  likewise  to  smile  upon  him,  he  was  soon 


224  DA  Y  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

firmly  established  in  the  post  of  household  favorite. 
It  followed,  as  the  night  the  day,  that  Einhard  lost 
ground  steadily.  The  poor  relation  became  little 
better  than  the  family  drudge.  Nothing  he  could  do 
was  exactly  right ;  he  was  misjudged  and  slighted 
upon  all  occasions.  Worse  than  that,  his  cousin 
played  him  false  most  cruelly  by  repeating  some 
of  his  marvellous  tales  to  Moritz,  for  whose  com 
panionship  she  now  showed  a  decided  preference ; 
and  the  butcher's  boy,  displaying  a  savage  dex 
terity  that  was  perhaps  inherited,  turned  the  knife 
in  Einhard's  wound  with  many  a  mocking  jest 
upon  the  subject  of  these  confidences.  The  house 
of  Koberstein  was  a  small  world,  and  the  weakest 
went  to  the  wall  in  it. 

But  for  his  good  friends,  the  books,  poor  Ein 
hard  might  have  been  driven  to  some  desperate 
deed.  As  it  was,  he  only  imitated  the  tortoise, 
who  shrinks  into  his  shell  to  escape  his  tormentor. 
He  made  few  complaints,  spoke  fewer  and  fewer 
words  of  any  kind  as  the  days  went  on.  His 
brain  was  busy  none  the  less.  Stimulated  always 
at  night  by.  the  noble  thoughts  of  others,  his  own 
thoughts  came  thick  and  fast,  clamoring  for  ex 
pression.  He  trusted  no  one  with  them  now  ;  he 
did  not  even  dare  to  write  them  down,  but  only  com 
mitted  them  to  memory  in  the  form  of  verse,  since 
verse  was  easier  to  remember.  Often,  though  he 
did  not  know  it,  these  were  mere  echoes  of  some 
master-mind,  over  which  he  had  been  brooding. 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    225 

Even  to  utter  a  cry  of  the  heart,  at  first,  one's 
voice  unconsciously  repeats  another's  cry.  But 
Einhard  now  and  then  could  strike  a  note  that  was 
all  his,  and  that  would  have  rung  out  loud  and 
clear  with  an  echo  of  its  own  had  there  been  any 
one  to  hear  it. 

So  matters  stood,  with  no  change  that  was  not 
for  the  worse,  when  Einhard  was  seventeen,  and  it 
happened  that  old  Jacob  Koberstein,  going  to  bed 
late  or  getting  up  early,  saw  a  gleam  of  light  under 
the  door  of  the  garret  where  the  boy  slept  alone. 
Bursting  into  the  room  without  warning,  he  found 
Einhard  wide  awake,  and  hovering  over  a  candle 
with  a  little  vellum-bound  book  in  his  hand.  Rage 
made  him  speechless  for  an  instant ;  then  he  blew 
out  the  light,  and  telling  his  nephew  to  go  to  bed 
in  the  dark  then  and  there  and  from  that  time 
forth,  he  departed,  carrying  off  the  book  in  spite 
of  all  that  Einhard  could  say  or  do.  It  was  a  rare 
volume,  belonging,  of  course,  to  the  friendly  dealer ; 
and  white  with  fear  at  the  thought  of  its  possible 
destruction,  the  boy  crept  down  the  stairs  behind 
his  uncle,  who,  however,  did  nothing  more  terrible 
than  to  lock  it  up  in  a  certain  iron-bound  strong 
box,  of  which  he  always  carried  the  key.  Thus 
relieved  for  the  time  Einhard  went  back  to  his 
room,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  night  in  devising 
means  to  get  the  priceless  treasure  safe  into  his 
hands  again.  He  dared  not  betray  its  owner,  lest 
this  should  be  to  cut  off  the  source  of  his  supplies. 

15 


226  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

His  uncle's  wrath  would  surely  turn  against  the 
dealer,  who  would  obtain  the  property  only  upon 
condition  that  the  hideous  crime  of  lending  it 
should  never  be  repeated.  No  ;  that  would  not  do. 
He  must  keep  his  own  counsel,  await  his  oppor 
tunity,  open  the  chest  himself,  when  the  favorable 
moment  should  occur.  It  would  be  but  a  moment, 
if  he  only  had  the  key. 

The  key  !  How  to  get  it  ?  He  had  never  before 
kept  a  book  so  long.  Days  passed  in  which  he 
lived  in  dread  of  a  demand  for  it ;  in  which  too 
his  misery  was  aggravated  by  his  uncle's  persistent 
harshness.  This  had  now  taken  an  aggressive 
turn,  not  due,  as  Einhard  believed,  to  the  mere 
discovery  of  his  midnight  studies,  but  to  quite  a 
different  cause.  For  some  time  old  Jacob  had 
missed  various  small  sums  of  money,  and  in  his 
own  mind  he  secretly  accused  his  unlucky  nephew 
of  pilfering  them.  The  suspicion,  for  proof  of 
which  he  kept  sharp  watch,  changing  his  dislike  to 
hatred,  led  him  into  acts  of  positive  brutality. 
Einhard  bore  these  new  trials  without  complaint, 
as  he  had  borne  the  others,  still  absorbed  in  his 
books,  or  rather,  now,  in  one  book  which  was  no 
longer  his. 

Chance  favored  him.  One  stormy  winter's  night 
he  was  left  alone  with  his  uncle  in  their  gloomy 
workshop.  The  room,  littered  now  with  piles  of 
leather,  and  lighted  by  a  flickering  lamp,  had  been 
a  kitchen  in  some  former  time.  In  one  corner 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    227 

was  a  cavernous  chimney,  over  which  the  wind 
howled  dismally,  bringing  down  stray  drops  of 
rain  that  pattered  upon  the  hearth-stone.  Moritz 
had  taken  himself  off,  but  Einhard,  grimy  with 
dust  and  oil,  still  crouched  at  his  bench  ;  while  his 
uncle,  bustling  about,  first  put  his  work  in  order 
for  the  night,  then  drew  a  stool  into  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  after  kindling  a  fire,  sat  down  by  it  to 
smoke  his  pipe  in  sullen  silence.  Einhard  worked 
on  mechanically,  staying  his  hand  now  and  then 
at  a  startling  gust  of  the  storm.  Suddenly  his 
eyes  brightened ;  he  drew  himself  up  ;  his  whole 
demeanor  changed ;  on  the  table,  under  the  lamp, 
he  had  seen  his  uncle's  keys.  And  in  another 
moment,  old  Jacob's  head  drooped  forward  upon 
his  breast,  his  right  hand,  with  the  pipe  in  it, 
dropped  gently  to  his  knee.  He  was  sound  asleep ; 
Einhard's  hour  had  come. 

In  a  flash  the  boy  took  off  his  shoes,  crept  to 
the  table,  caught  up  lamp  and  keys,  and  with  every 
possible  precaution  made  his  way  into  the  outer 
shop  where  the  strong-box  stood  behind  the  little 
counter  on  the  floor  against  the  wall.  He  knelt 
beside  it,  trying  each  key  in  its  turn  until  he  found 
the  right  one.  The  lock  yielded,  the  lid  opened 
noiselessly  ;  under  it  he  saw  papers  and  bags  of 
money,  an  odd  trinket  or  two,  a  golden  chain.  He 
fumbled  right  and  left  to  no  purpose ;  then  scat 
tered  the  things  about  until  he  came  at  last  to  the 
precious  book,  which  he  slipped  at  once  into  his 


228  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

pocket.  The  other  contents  he  proceeded  to  put 
back  with  trembling  care.  In  spite  of  all  he  could 
do,  the  papers  rustled,  the  money  clinked  a  little, 
—  only  a  very  little,  but  it  was  enough.  There 
came  a  heavy  step,  a  cry  of  rage ;  his  shoulder 
was  clutched  by  a  strong,  rough  hand.  Blindly  he 
flung  up  his  own  which  held  one  of  the  money 
bags,  and  struck  his  uncle  full  in  the  face.  With 
an  oath  old  Jacob  fell  in  a  heap,  overturning  the 
lamp,  and  floundering  on  the  floor. 

"  Thief !  thief ! "  he  shouted. 

"  It  is  a  lie !  "  cried  Einhard,  as  he  flung  down 
the  bag  with  all  his  might.  It  burst  open,  and 
the  coins  rolled  right  and  left,  glistening  through 
the  firelight  of  the  inner  room.  Then,  while  the 
man  wavered,  in  doubt  which  to  pursue  first,  his 
treasure  or  his  prey,  the  boy  rushed  to  the  door 
and  fled  out  of  it  into  the  storm. 

He  was  not  followed.  He  turned  one  corner, 
then  another ;  he  heard  no  outcry,  and  could 
breathe  freely.  He  was  drenched,  already  numb 
with  cold ;  but  that  mattered  little  since  he  had 
saved  the  book,  which  he  now  returned  to  the 
owner,  telling  him  the  story  and  begging  shelter 
for  the  night.  The  dealer  gave  more  than  he 
asked,  not  only  warming,  feeding,  and  clothing 
him,  but  also  offering  to  make  his  peace  with 
Koberstein,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible.  To 
this,  however,  Einhard  would  not  listen. 

"  What  then  ? "  inquired  his  friend,  who  was  a 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    229 

timid,  gentle  soul,  bowed  with  the  weight  of  years. 
"  What  in  the  world  is  to  become  of  you  ? " 

"  Anything  in  the  world  but  that,"  replied  the 
boy,  stoutly.  "  To-morrow  I  will  tell  you." 

So  he  went  to  bed,  and  tossed  for  awhile  rest 
lessly.  Then  he  fell  into  a  sleep  disturbed  by 
dreams,  made  up,  as  dreams  often  are,  from  shreds 
of  actual  experience  stretched  and  twisted  by  a 
wilful  fancy.  One  of  these  was  strangely  vivid. 
He  saw  a  city  square,  long  unfamiliar,  that  he  had 
seen,  indeed,  but  once,  as  a  child  in  his  father's 
arms.  His  father  held  him  now,  showing  him  the 
trees  and  flowers ;  there  were  little  tables  too, 
and  he  heard  the  sound  of  running  water.  Then 
his  father  was  gone,  and  he  stood  erect,  a  grown 
man,  facing  an  angry  crowd  that  threatened  him. 
By  his  side  in  the  dress  of  another  age  knelt 
a  fantastic  figure,  old,  feeble,  and  deformed,  im 
ploring  help. 

"  The  world  !  "  the  stranger  whispered.  "  It  is 
all  against  you.  Fight  it,  conquer  it,  or  it  will 
tear  us  limb  from  limb." 

There  came  a  struggle ;  the  crowd  seemed  to 
sweep  over  him  and  bear  him  down.  All  passed, 
leaving  him  in  cool,  deep  silence,  lying  alone  under 
the  trees,  with  his  face  to  the  stars,  through  which 
faint  flushes  of  the  dawn  came  stealing  up.  And 
then  he  woke  to  find  it  all  a  dream,  except  the 
morning  light  that  shone  around  him,  thrice  clear 
and  serene  in  contrast  to  his  night  of  storms. 


230  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  Mayence  !  "  he  murmured  ;  "  it  was  Mayence  ! 
And  it  is  there  that  I  must  go." 

He  remembered  that  in  this  neighboring  city 
lived  his  father's  cousin,  whom,  to  be  sure,  he  had 
never  seen.  But  the  man  was  by  trade  a  printer, 
and  must  therefore  have  a  certain  sympathy  with 
books.  That  he  was  wretchedly  poor  there  could 
be  little  doubt ;  yet  this  thought  only  strengthened 
Einhard  in  his  resolve,  for  he  knew  instinctively 
that  the  poor  always  greet  poverty  with  a  gentle 
ness  which  is  often  wanting  in  the  rich  man's  treat 
ment  of  it.  Whatever  might  result,  his  appeal  for 
advice  and  help,  but  not  for  charity,  would  at  least 
be  kindly  heard.  To  Mayence,  then,  to  Mayence  ! 
the  moment  that  another  night  should  shield 
him  from  his  uncle's  eyes.  His  old  friend,  whc 
would  have  reconciled  him  to  the  saddler,  made 
fruitless  objections ;  then  urged  upon  him  mone}: 
for  the  journey,  which  Einhard  proudly  declined 
He  had  money  of  his  own,  he  said.  The  dealci 
had  turned  the  boy's  pockets  inside  out,  and  knew 
that  they  contained  only  a  few  copper  coins.  But 
he  accepted  the  statement  gravely,  contenting  him 
self  with  such  comfortable  gifts  of  clothing  as  could 
be  forced  upon  his  guest,  whose  departure,  under 
cover  of  the  darkness,  he  was  already  speeding 
when  the  door  opened  and  Minna  Koberstein  pre 
sented  herself. 

Einhard  drew  back  in  dismay ;  his  imagination 
already  pictured  the  dungeon  to  which  he  would  be 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    231 

dragged  forthwith,  now  that  his  hiding-place  was 
known.  But  Minna  had  only  guessed  at  it,  and 
had  shrewdly  kept  her  own  counsel.  Out  of  her 
cousin's  slender  store  of  worldly  goods  she  had 
filled  a  knapsack  with  the  things  most  needful  for 
a  journey,  since  he  must  go  away.  Her  father  was 
very  violent ;  it  would  not  do  to  venture  into  his 
sight.  Did  Einhard  know  of  his  dreadful  charges, 
which  she  knew  were  false  ?  His  uncle  could  not 
be  convinced  of  their  injustice ;  but  she  pledged 
herself  to  bring  him  to  reason  in  Einhard's  absence. 
Yes  ;  he  must  go  away,  for  a  time. 

"  For  all  time  !  "  said  Einhard  to  himself.  Then, 
touched  by  Minna's  impulsive  kindness,  he  de 
scribed  in  detail  his  adventure,  and  accepted  grate 
fully  her  friendly  offices.  She  had  won  her  old 
place  in  his  heart  again ;  it  was  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  that  he  bade  her  farewell.  So  the  three 
parted  upon  the  threshold,  and  went  their  several 
ways.  She  to  her  present  care  of  turning  old 
Jacob's  wit  the  seamy  side  within ;  the  dealer  to 
his  mouldy  records  of  the  past ;  and  Einhard 
straight  out  to  meet  the  future,  and  make  it 
stand  and  deliver  whatever  good  fortune  it  should 
bring. 

He  slept  that  night  by  the  roadside,  with  his 
knapsack  for  a  pillow.  All  day  he  followed  the 
dusty  highway,  procuring  a  scanty  meal  under  the 
porch  of  some  village  inn,  and  then  trudging  on 
with  a  light  heart  so  long  as  his  money  lasted ; 


232  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

but  it  was  all  gone  by  the  next  noon,  when,  draw 
ing  near  the  gates  of  a  town,  tired,  hungry,  and 
despondent,  he  stopped  to  rest  and  take  thought  of 
the  morrow.  Rather  than  beg  he  opened  his  pack 
in  search  of  something  to  offer  in  exchange  for 
food,  and  immediately  out  dropped  a  roll  of  money, 
—  enough  to  supply  his  moderate  wants  for  days 
and  weeks.  Who  but  Minna  could  have  done  this  ? 
He  blessed  her  for  it  a  thousand  times.  How 
bright  the  skies  were  now ;  how  yellow  were  the 
cornfields  that  he  passed,  how  green  the  vineyards ! 
But  his  harvest  lay  beyond,  under  the  spires  of 
Mayence ;  already  against  the  clear  sky  they  twin 
kled,  with  all  their  vanes,  like  beckoning  fingers. 
The  sun  set,  and  these  same  towers  grew  gray  and 
cold  as  he  approached  them.  Then  the  chimes 
rang  out,  muffled  and  mellowed  by  the  distance,  — 
a  low  breathing  of  unseen  bells  rather  than  their 
uplifted  voices.  "  Fortune  !  fortune ! "  he  half 
heard  them  say,  as  if  the  note  of  promise  were 
meant  only  for  his  ears.  At  the  sound  his  heart 
beat  higher,  though  the  twilight  deepened,  until  at 
last  he  came  to  the  broad  river  and  the  mighty 
bridge,  over  which  he  strode  with  quickened  pace, 
out  of  the  darkness  of  solitude  into  flaring  streets 
filled  with  the  darker  indifference  of  unknown 
faces. 

Since  the  day  he  was  driven  forth  from  Eden, 
man's  state  has  been  little  better  than  that  of  the 
pack-horse,  never  free  of  his  burden,  but  merely 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    233 

exchanging  one  load  for  another  in  all  his  wander 
ings  through  the  world.  At  the  first  glance  Ein- 
hard's  share  of  the  weight  would  seem  to  have 
become  no  lighter  under  the  printer's  apprentice 
ship  upon  which  he  entered.  But  actually,  both 
in  body  and  in  mind,  he  was  much  relieved.  His 
new-found  relative  received  him  with  kindness, 
made  room  for  him  at  his  own  table,  obtained  for 
him  this  employment,  which,  drudgery  as  it  was, 
brought  with  it  enormous  compensations.  If  to 
handle  type  afforded  him  no  special  joy,  there  were 
manuscripts  that  he  could  decipher,  printed  pages 
from  which  something  could  be  learned  in  a  furtive 
glance,  the  glow  of  excitement  that  a  good  line 
gives  to  one  who  can  use  his  brains.  Furthermore, 
in  hours  of  freedom  he  found  opportunity  secretly 
to  set  up  lines  and  pages  of  his  own  with  which  his 
mind  had  long  been  teeming.  And  though  his 
great  thoughts  dwindled  when  he  met  them  in  this 
manner,  face  to  face,  at  least  they  were  neither 
hasty  nor  ill-considered  ;  it  was  like  seeing  his  own 
heart  in  a  mirror  to  read  them.  So,  hoping  always 
to  do  better,  and  growing  with  his  work,  he  went 
on,  slowly  adding  leaf  after  leaf  to  a  book  of  his 
own  making  in  all  senses  of  the  word. 

Once  established  in  his  new  calling  he  made  it 
his  first  care  to  thank  his  cousin  for  the  mysteri 
ous  gift  discovered  in  his  knapsack  at  a  desperate 
moment.  He  wrote  that  he  had  spent  but  little  of 
the  money ;  that  he  only  waited  to  make  good  the 


234  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

sum  out  of  his  earnings  before  restoring  it  in  full. 
For  a  long  time  this  letter  was  left  unanswered, 
and  the  answer,  when  it  came,  was  singularly  cold. 
Minna  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  the  money  ;  she 
had  given  him  none.  She  wished  her  cousin  well, 
but  she  held  out  no  hope  of  a  change  in  her  father's 
views  concerning  him.  Obviously  old  Jacob  still 
believed  his  nephew  to  be  a  thief.  Did  Minna 
think  so  too  ?  Was  her  coldness  due  to  that  ?  Or 
was  it  merely  that  she  cared  a  little  less  for 
Einhard  than  for  his  former  rival,  Moritz  Lahn  V 

Who,  then,  could  have  concealed  the  roll  of  bank 
notes  in  his  wallet  ?  Who  but  the  first  cause  of 
all  his  joys  and  troubles,  the  kind  old  treasure- 
seeker  whose  offers  of  money  he  had  proudly  re 
jected  ?  To  him,  therefore,  Einhard  addressed  a 
letter,  which  returned  long  afterward  with  the  seal 
unbroken.  The  good  dealer  in  imprints  had 
scanned  his  last  title-page,  and  had  gone  the  musty 
way  of  all  documents,  however  guarded.  He  was 
dead  as  the  Sibyl's  books ;  and  limited  as  were 
his  friendships,  Einhard  counted  one  friend  less  in 
the  world. 

He  laid  the  sum  by,  and  living  frugally,  increased 
it  little  by  little.  He  dreaded  beggary  even  more 
than  death  itself,  and  this  wholesome  terror  spared 
him  many  an  after  pang;  for  there  came  a  dull 
year  when  he,  in  common  with  many  others,  fell 
out  of  employment.  And  it  was  to  Einhard,  the 
youngest  of  them  all,  that  some  of  these  despairing 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    235 

people  applied  for  temporary  help,  which  he  gener 
ously  accorded  so  far  as  possible.  This  disaster 
became  also  the  spur  to  his  intent,  driving  him 
suddenly  forward  into  the  world  of  letters.  With 
fear  and  trembling  he  offered  to  a  publisher  his 
small  foundling  of  literature,  which  was  received 
and  adopted,  admired  even.  It  actually  brought 
him  money,  —  a  pittance,  it  is  true,  but  still,  money. 
He  lost  no  time  in  setting  to  work  upon  another 
which  had  long  been  seething  in  his  brain.  This 
should  clinch  his  first  hold  upon  success,  make 
him  something  more  than  a  minor  poet,  —  perhaps 
a  great  one.  If  he  could  only  finish  it !  But  he 
was  miserably  poor,  and  haunted  by  a  thousand 
nervous  fancies.  One  day  his  work  seemed  abso 
lutely  worthless  ;  the  next,  it  hung  fire  altogether  ; 
still  another,  he  was  all  a-glow  with  it,  but  there 
stood  starvation  knocking  at  the  door,  eager  to  run 
a  race  with  his  pen.  Fortunately  there  set  in  an 
early  spring,  —  that  season  of  hope  to  all,  and 
especially  to  the  poor  man,  for  it  puts  money  in  his 
purse,  with  a  promise  of  long  exemption  from  the 
need  of  light  and  fuel.  For  his  sake  would  it  were 
always  scorching  midsummer  in  all  climes  the  sun 
shines  on  ;  how  much  less  pitiable  are  the  poor  of 
the  tropics  than  the  poor  of  London. 

And  now  we  have  followed  the  small  circle  back 
to  the  very  point  of  our  departure,  coming  once 
more  upon  Einhard  Becker  seated  in  the  Triton- 
Platz  of  Mayence,  absorbed  in  a  new  problem  very 


236  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

difficult  to  solve.  His  cousin  Minna  had  written  to 
him  again,  and  this  time  of  her  own  accord.  The 
evil  spirit  of  the  house  of  Koberstein  had  been  ex 
orcised  at  last.  Moritz  Lahn,  now  expelled  igno- 
miniously,  was  proved  to  be  the  real  culprit  for 
whose  crime  the  innocent  had  suffered.  Her  good 
father,  she  wrote,  longed  to  make  all  the  amends 
in  his  power.  Through  her  he  recalled  Einhard 
upon  the  most  flattering  of  terms,  —  not  as  an  ap 
prentice,  but  as  a  master.  They  would  share  and 
share  alike  ;  henceforth  he  should  be  treated  as  old 
Jacob's  son,  —  as  his  successor  ;  and  Minna,  im 
ploring  him  to  come  back,  threw,  it  seemed,  more 
than  a  sister's  love  into  the  scale.  But  all  this  de 
pended  upon  one  condition.  Einhard  must  pledge 
himself  to  give  up  his  books,  and  fix  all  his  thoughts 
on  leather.  There  must  be  no  poetry  in  his  life, 
unless  her  love,  that  had  waxed  and  waned  capri 
ciously,  could  be  accounted  a  poetic  thing. 

Upon  receiving  this  letter,  in  one  of  his  exultant 
moods,  Einhard  was  inclined  to  laugh  at  it.  Inured 
as  he  was  to  poverty,  what  were  its  hardships  com 
pared  with  his  uncle's  tyranny,  of  which  there  still 
remained  the  vivid  recollection  ?  What  were  the 
definite  material  comforts  that  could  outweigh  his 
illimitable  hopes  of  fame  ?  He  took  up  his  pen  to 
set  aside  temptation  with  a  single  stroke.  But 
he  was  not  quick  enough ;  before  it  touched  the 
paper  doubts  assailed  him.  He  hesitated,  dropped 
the  pen,  and  read  the  letter  once  more.  After  all 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    237 

it  promised  much.  Life-long  immunity  from  care 
should  not  be  considered  lightly.  And  he  had 
loved  his  cousin  once.  She  had  done  her  best  at 
times  to  quench  the  boyish  passion  which  now  bade 
fair  to  revive  under  the  destroyer's  hand.  Already 
he  longed  for  a  sight  of  her.  Was  not  success  in 
love  the  best  that  mortal  man  could  hope  to  know  ? 
Yes ;  it  was  everything.  To  forego  that  joy  for  the 
delusive  one  of  fame  was  like  turning  from  a  fire 
to  snatch  warmth  from  a  star. 

Lost  now  in  a  maze  of  deliberation,  that  day  he 
wrote  no  word.  All  night  he  lay  awake,  and  in 
the  morning,  springing  up  resolutely,  he  composed 
a  line  of  acceptance,  which  he  immediately  de 
stroyed  ;  then  he  went  out,  and  strolled  aimlessly 
through  the  town,  staring  at  the  shops,  noting  how 
sleek  and  comfortable  the  tradesmen  looked,  until 
he  came  to  a  saddler's  window,  and  drew  back  in 
disgust.  The  smell  of  the  leather  was  enough  to 
make  him  miserable.  And  so,  tired  and  faint  with 
the  heat,  he  turned  at  last  into  the  Triton-Platz, 
where,  at  that  hour,  he  found  much  merriment  and 
clinking  of  glasses.  One  by  one  the  other  citizens 
withdrew  to  their  affairs.  Einhard  was  left  alone 
long  before  his  simple  meal  was  finished.  That 
did  not  trouble  him,  however.  He  knew  the  square 
well,  and  loved  it  from  the  tenderest  associations. 
It  was  just  there,  across  the  way,  that  his  father 
had  held  him  up  to  look  at  the  fountain  years  ago. 
The  cool  solitude  of  the  place  was  very  grateful  to 


238  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

him  ;  he  would  stay  on  here  until  he  had  settled  his 
burning  question  once  for  all.  He  spread  Minna's 
letter  out  before  him,  and  calling  for  pen  and 
paper,  prepared  again  to  answer  it ;  but  he  got  no 
farther  than  the  scribbling  of  his  name.  As  he  sat 
with  knit  brows,  forgetful  of  his  looks,  the  picture 
of  helpless  indecision,  the  waiters  smiled  a  little, 
then  yawned  and  dozed,  leaving  him  to  himself. 
Like  all  waiters,  they  knew  their  world,  and  were 
not  to  be  moved  by  any  trifling  eccentricity  in  it. 

The  shadows  grew  longer  and  sharper  ;  the  day 
was  drawing  to  a  close ;  the  square  roused  itself 
and  gave  signs  of  life.  Two  young  men  placed 
themselves  at  a  table  near  that  at  which  Einhard 
still  sat  scribbling  his  name  abstractedly.  They 
called  for  beer,  and  chattered  over  some  gossip  of 
the  town.  Their  talk  was  interrupted  by  a  noise 
of  distant  shouting,  which  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
till  there  turned  into  the  square  a  man's  figure  of 
inconceivable  oddity,  followed  by  a  troop  of  mock 
ing  boys,  who,  however,  kept  at  a  safe  distance, 
since  now  and  then  their  victim  paused  to  threaten 
them.  He  was  withered  and  shrunken,  covered 
with  dust  from  head  to  foot ;  strange  garments 
hung  about  him  loosely,  but  these  were  of  a  faded 
splendor,  rich  in  their  material.  As  he  approached 
with  shambling  and  uncertain  gait  he  looked  like 
some  mask  that  had  lost  his  way  in  a  bygone  car 
nival,  and  had  been  wandering  about  the  earlh 
ever  since,  vainly  trying  to  find  it.  Coming  up  to 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    239 

the  cafe*-door  he  peered  timidly  at  Einhard's  neigh 
bors  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  fear  the  light,  and 
then  asked  them  to  tell  him  what  day  of  the  year 
it  was. 

The  men  laughed,  but  made  no  other  answer. 
The  boys,  encouraged  by  the  sympathy  of  these 
new  allies,  looked  about  for  stones  to  throw  at  the 
bewildered  stranger,  who  paid  them  no  heed,  but 
addressing  the  older  of  the  two  men,  put  his  hands 
together  with  a  quaint,  imploring  gesture,  and 
repeated  his  question. 

"  Tell  me,  sir,  I  pray  you,"  he  begged  in  a 
cracked  voice,  "  what  is  the  date  of  the  year  ? " 

"  How  should  I  know  ? "  retorted  the  man,  with 
a  laugh.  "  There  it  is ;  read  it  yourself."  And 
he  pointed  as  he  spoke  toward  the  theatre-wall,  on 
which  clung  the  remnant  of  a  play-bill,  bearing  a 
date,  it  is  true,  but  one  long  past. 

The  stranger  bowed  with  a  grateful  word,  then 
moving  slowly  to  the  wall,  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hand,  and  looked  up  at  the  tattered  poster. 

Einhard  sprung  to  his  feet  indignantly. 

"  Why  did  you  tell  him  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

«  Why  not  ? "  said  the  man.  "  Who  the  devil 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  neither  a  coward  nor  a  liar,"  said  Einhard, 
in  a  passion,  "  and  you  are  both." 

With  an  inarticulate  cry  of  rage  the  man  flew  at 
Einhard's  throat.  There  was  a  struggle,  in  which 
the  student  had  the  better  of  it.  They  fell  to  the 


240  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

ground  together,  Einhard  uppermost ;  but  his  op 
ponent's  comrade  interfered,  and  after  him  the 
waiters.  Chairs  and  tables  were  overturned  in  a  pro 
longed  scuffle,  from  which  Einhard  suddenly  found 
himself  extricated,  he  knew  not  how,  and  leaning 
against  the  cafe'-wall  for  breath.  A  shower  of  small 
stones  rattled  about  his  ears  ;  while  the  poor  dwarf, 
who  had  flown  to  him  for  protection,  crouched  at 
his  feet  and  clasped  his  knees.  Beside  him  the  fray 
went  on  ;  others  had  joined  in  it ;  it  threatened  to 
become  general.  The  uproar  grew  louder  and 
wilder ;  already  the  square  was  filling  up  with  a  cu 
rious  crowd.  The  boys  danced  with  savage  delight, 
like  demons,  and  fired  a  second  volley  indiscrimi 
nately.  One  of  the  stones  struck  in  the  face  the 
innocent  cause  of  all  the  mischief,  who  moaned 
piteously. 

"  The  world  ! "  he  cried  in  a  voice  faint  with 
terror.  "  It  is  always  so  in  the  world.  Help,  good 
master  !  Save  me  !  " 

Einhard  caught  up  a  chair  to  attack  one  of  the 
troop  now  venturing  within  reach ;  but  at  that 
moment  the  window  behind  him  opened,  a  hand 
grasped  his  arm  and  dragged  him  in,  together 
with  the  strange  companion,  who  had  fastened 
upon  him  like  a  crab. 

"  Be  off  with  you ! "  said  the  host,  for  it  was  he. 
"  Do  you  want  to  bring  the  house  about  our  ears  ? " 

And  he  pushed  them  toward  a  small  door  at  the 
back  of  the  caf£  leading  to  a  narrow,  quiet  street, 


THROUGH  THE    GATE   OF  DREAMS.         241 

already  dark  in  the  deepening  twilight.  The  dwarf 
now  took  the  lead,  and  as  though  he  knew  his 
way  perfectly,  hurried  Einhard  along,  by  one  turn 
after  another,  until  they  came  out  into  the  open 
Schiller-Platz,  near  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where 
all  was  cool  and  still.  Its  old  lime-trees  flung 
about  them  fantastic  shadows,  in  which  their  own 
were  lost,  as  they  went  on  to  a  noiseless  fountain 
hidden  away  among  the  leaves.  Here  his  guide 
stopped  to  refresh  himself  by  dipping  his  hands 
and  face  into  the  basin ;  and  Einhard,  finding  that 
he  too  was  bruised  and  bleeding,  did  the  same. 

The  fountain  is  surmounted  by  a  granite  pillar, 
said  to  be  a  relic  of  Charlemagne's  palace  at  In- 
gelheim,  and  certainly  so  old  that  this  statement 
of  its  origin  has  never  been  disputed.  As  Einhard 
Becker  lifted  his  face  from  the  refreshing  water 
he  saw  that  the  dwarf  had  left  his  side  and  had 
climbed  to  the  base  of  the  column,  where  he  knelt 
for  a  moment  to  lay  his  lips  upon  the  stone,  rev 
erently.  Then,  with  an  adroitness  of  which  he  had 
appeared  before  incapable,  he  swung  himself  quiet 
ly  to  the  earth  again,  and  drawing  nearer,  plucked 
Einhard  gently  by  the  sleeve.  His  eyes  had  lost 
their  dulness,  and  were  keen  and  piercing.  His 
whole  expression  too  had  changed,  as  if  he  had 
gathered  strength  and  courage  from  the  darkness, 
like  a  nocturnal  animal.  Einhard  looked  at  him  in 
wonder,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  cathedral  clock  struck  the  hour,  and  the 

16 


242  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

stranger  laid  his  finger  on  his  lips,  counting  in- 
audibly  the  strokes  of  the  bell,  and  listening  for 
its  last  vibration  to  die  away. 

"  Nine  !  "  he  muttered.  "  So  late,  and  they  told 
me  nothing.  But  you  are  not  like  the  others,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Einhard  confidently.  "  I  can 
trust  you." 

"Fully,"  said  Einhard.  "What  help  do  you 
need  ?  "  Strange  as  this  presence  was,  he  did  not 
shrink  from  it ;  rather  it  drew  him  closer  by  some 
bond  of  sympathy  wholly  unaccountable.  Then, 
in  a  voice  clear  and  resonant  as  the  cathedral-bell 
itself,  the  man  put  his  singular  question  for  the 
third  time,  — 

"  Tell  me,  I  pray  you,  what  is  the  date  of  the 
year  ? " 

"  Midsummer-day,"  said  Einhard,  smiling  at  his 
insistence,  and  puzzled  by  the  reiteration  of  his 
trivial  demand. 

"  But  the  year,  —  the  year  ?  " 

Einhard  gave  this  information  also  ;  the  other 
repeating  the  words  thoughtfully,  and  then  ex 
pressing  his  thanks  with  grateful  earnestness. 

"  You  have  done  me  double  service  ;  you  took 
my  part,  —  you  saved  me  from  those  lying  curs. 
Yet  by  your  looks  I  see  that  you  are  most  unhappy. 
They  have  tormented  you  too,  down  there  in  the 
world." 

"  No,"  said  Einhard,  sighing ;  for  Minna's  letter, 
still  unanswered,  lay  like  a  leaden  weight  upon  his 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    243 

heart.  "  I  am  my  own  tormentor.  I  long  to  soar, 
and  dare  not  trust  my  wings." 

"  A  poor  confession  !  "  said  the  dwarf,  in  a  tone 
almost  savage  in  its  sternness.  "  Is  the  penance 
you  call  life  so  precious  that  you  cannot  risk  the 
loss  of  it,  even  for  the  stars  ?  " 

"  Dead  worlds  !  "  replied  Einhard,  mournfully. 
"  They  mock  us  with  a  beauty  unattainable.  Look 
up !  Between  us  and  them  lies  all  the  blackness 
of  oblivion." 

"  Yes,"  was  the  bitter  answer ;  "  it  is  a  fine  thing 
to  deal  in  leather." 

Einhard  started.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? "  de 
manded  he. 

"  0  poet ! "  said  the  warning  voice,  softened 
now  into  a  note  of  sadness ;  "  the  price  they  ask 
you  is  too  dear  for  happiness  so  brief.  Let  the 
earth  go,  and  listen  to  the  soul  that  pleads  in  you 
for  an  immortal  life.  Win  that,  or  fail  only  in 
striving  to  attain  it.  Come  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  what  it  is  to  live." 

"  Where  would  you  have  me  go  ?  " 

The  dwarf  pointed  toward  one  of  the  city  gates, 
rising  between  them  and  the  western  stars.  "  To 
my  master,  who  is  waiting  there  for  my  return." 

"  Beyond  the  gate  ? " 

"Ay,  truly.  Beyond  the  gate,  —  beyond  the  gate 
of  dreams ;  into  the  grandeur  of  the  past,  the 
splendor  of  an  unknown  future,  where  no  man 
living  has  been  before  you." 


244  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

"  You  promise  much,"  said  Einhard,  with  a 
smile.  "  But  can  you  make  the  grandeur  and  the 
splendor  last  ?  Will  not  the  poor  dreamer,  when 
he  wakes,  be  all  the  poorer  for  his  dreams  ?  " 

"  Have  faith,"  the  dwarf  replied.  "  I  make  the 
unreal  real.  When  you  have  passed  my  master's 
threshold  you  will  never  wake.  To  you,  hereafter, 
life  will  be  the  dream." 

"  What  more  can  I  ask  ?  "  said  Einhard,  confi 
dently,  "  except  that  you  shall  keep  your  word. 
Farewell,  house  of  Koberstein ! "  As  he  spoke 
his  hand  closed  upon  the  letter,  and  with  it  he 
lifted  from  his  heart  its  intolerable  load.  He  flung 
the  crumpled  paper  into  the  fountain  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  "  I  will  go,"  said  he. 

"  Follow  me,  then,"  returned  the  dwarf,  as  he 
drew  his  tattered  cloak  about  him.  "  This  way,  — 
through  the  shadows." 

Hugging  the  darkness,  so  far  as  it  was  possible, 
they  went  on  in  silence  to  a  flight  of  stone  steps 
that  led  them  to  a  terrace  high  above  the  city.  At 
this  commanding  point,  while  the  guide  stopped 
for  breath,  Einhard  turned  to  look  down  upon  the 
spires  and  housetops,  the  frowning  roof  of  the 
cathedral,  the  wide  sweep  of  the  Rhine  and  its 
sentinel  peaks  of  the  Niederwald  in  all  their  vary 
ing  degrees  of  blackness.  A  murmur  rose  from 
the  pavement  where  countless  lamps  traced  out 
the  streets  and  squares  like  strings  of  jewels  ;  and 
one  shrill  voice  shot  up  to  them,  cutting  the  air, 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    245 

as  though  borne  on  the  feathered  shaft  of  an  arrow. 
But  it  did  not  come  from  the  Triton-Platz ;  there 
all  was  peace  itself  under  the  overarching  leaves. 

They  followed  the  terrace  to  the  city  wall,  and 
beyond  it,  through  the  Binger  Gate,  into  the  open 
country.  Here  the  dwarf,  quickening  his  pace, 
strode  out  along  the  smooth  turnpike  that  stretched 
away  immeasurably. 

"  Is  not  this  the  road  to  Zahlbach  ? "  asked 
Einhard,  breaking  at  last  their  oppressive  silence. 

"  No ;  to  Ingelheim,"  replied  the  other,  without 
stopping  even  to  turn  his  head.  Time  pressed 
with  him,  since  they  had  far  to  go. 

"  To  Ingelheim,"  repeated  Einhard,  under  his 
breath.  The  word  recalled  old  legends  of  his 
earliest  friends,  the  books,  and  made  him  regard 
the  distorted  figure  trudging  on  before  him  with 
something  more  than  reverence,  yet  with  no  thought 
of  fear.  Who  was  his  master  ?  To  what  threshold 
were  they  tending?  The  question  of  the  year, 
which  he  had  asked  so  often,  tallied  perfectly  with 
a  tale  the  student  knew  by  heart.  If  that  tale 
were  true,  the  mysterious  messenger  could  work 
him  only  good.  To  pass  that  noble  master's 
portal,  and  make  all  after-life  one  glorious  rec 
ollection,  would  be,  in  truth,  to  enter  through  the 
gate  of  dreams. 

They  were  on  high  land  now ;  the  night  wind 
blew  fresh  and  cool.  Dark  vineyards  opened  out 
before  them  to  the  darker  Rhine  shore,  already 


246  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

miles  away.  The  road  kept  its  due  westward 
course,  rising  gradually,  and  bringing  them  nearer 
to  the  stars,  —  so  near  that  myriads  came  out  where 
none  had  been  before.  A  great  meteor  swept 
slowly  across  the  sky  in  a  trail  of  light ;  a  hare 
fled  from  them  into  the  thicket ;  a  night-bird  flew 
over,  uttering  a  dismal  cry  But  they  met  no 
human  creature,  and  the  dwarf,  holding  his  even 
gait,  left  all  these  sights  and  sounds  unheeded. 

They  had  walked  thus  for  more  than  two  hours, 
when  the  road  began  gradually  to  descend  toward 
the  village  of  Ingelheirn,  which  lay  asleep  under 
its  shadowy  roof-lines  ;  but  on  one  side  of  the 
way  the  land  still  rose  in  an  abrupt  slope,  un 
broken  and  unwooded.  There  the  guide  suddenly 
stopped,  to  make  sure  that  he  was  observed  ;  then, 
beckoning  Einhard  to  follow,  he  plunged  into  the 
long  grass,  and  proceeded  to  climb  the  hill.  The 
crickets  vaulted  before  him  as  he  passed,  the  rank 
weeds  and  field-flowers  he  had  brushed  aside 
sprung  back  drenching  Einhard  with  dew.  So 
they  climbed  on,  up  the  height  and  over  the  brow 
of  it  to  a  wide,  wind-swept  plateau  that  looked  all 
the  more  desolate  for  certain  detached  fragments 
of  a  ruin  rising  massively  against  the  sky.  The 
rough-hewn  walls,  medieval  in  character,  must 
once  have  enclosed  a  dwelling  of  splendor  and 
solidity  ;  but  roofs  and  towers  and  pinnacles  lay 
in  the  earth  under  huge  mounds  heaped  over  all 
like  graves  of  a  colossal  race,  and  it  seemed  as  if 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    247 

the  crumbling  arches  that  remained  would  long 
ago  have  fallen  too,  but  for  stout  branches  of  ivy 
binding  the  stones  together  and  sustaining  them. 
All  broken  lines  had  been  softened  and  beautified 
by  its  glossy  mantle,  glistening  now  at  every  fold 
in  the  light  of  the  one-eyed,  waning  moon  that 
rose  above  this  memorial  of  a  vanished  age  as  the 
intruders  drew  near.  Then  Einhard  whispered, 
while  his  companion  paused  for  breath  once  more : 
"  It  is  the  hill  of  Charlemagne." 

"  Hark  !  "  returned  the  dwarf,  with  a  warning 
gesture ;  and  from  some  distant  point  within  the 
ruins  came  the  sound  of  a  horn,  in  low,  sweet 
notes,  faintly  blowing.  The  dwarf  advanced,  drew 
himself  up,  and  answered  the  signal  with  a  wild, 
unearthly  cry  that  echoed  and  re-echoed  through 
the  empty  arches.  In  a  moment  the  unseen  warder 
blew  his  horn  again,  and  then  all  was  silent  except 
the  rustling  of  the  leaves. 

With  swift,  noiseless  steps  the  messenger  re 
turned  to  Einhard's  side. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  he  whispered,  "  we  will  go 
in  together.  Hush !  not  a  word !  Only  when  I 
give  the  sign  speak  without  fear ;  until  then 
silence." 

So,  hand  in  hand  and  silently,  they  passed  slowly 
on  over  black  bars  of  shadow,  through  grass-grown 
courts,  roofless  and  deserted,  —  now  following  some 
line  of  ruined  wall  to  climb  it  at  a  favorable  point 
where  the  matted  ivy  secured  their  foothold,  and 


246  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

miles  away.  The  road  kept  its  due  westward 
course,  rising  gradually,  and  bringing  them  nearer 
to  the  stars,  —  so  near  that  myriads  came  out  where 
none  had  been  before.  A  great  meteor  swept 
slowly  across  the  sky  in  a  trail  of  light ;  a  hare 
fled  from  them  into  the  thicket ;  a  night-bird  flew 
over,  uttering  a  dismal  cry  But  they  met  no 
human  creature,  and  the  dwarf,  holding  his  even 
gait,  left  all  these  sights  and  sounds  unheeded. 

They  had  walked  thus  for  more  than  two  hours, 
when  the  road  began  gradually  to  descend  toward 
the  village  of  Ingelheiin,  which  lay  asleep  under 
its  shadowy  roof-lines  ;  but  on  one  side  of  the 
way  the  land  still  rose  in  an  abrupt  slope,  un 
broken  and  unwooded.  There  the  guide  suddenly 
stopped,  to  make  sure  that  he  was  observed  ;  then, 
beckoning  Einhard  to  follow,  he  plunged  into  the 
long  grass,  and  proceeded  to  climb  the  hill.  The 
crickets  vaulted  before  him  as  he  passed,  the  rank 
weeds  and  field-flowers  he  had  brushed  aside 
sprung  back  drenching  Einhard  with  dew.  So 
they  climbed  on,  up  the  height  and  over  the  brow 
of  it  to  a  wide,  wind-swept  plateau  that  looked  all 
the  more  desolate  for  certain  detached  fragments 
of  a  ruin  rising  massively  against  the  sky.  The 
rough-hewn  walls,  medieval  in  character,  must 
once  have  enclosed  a  dwelling  of  splendor  and 
solidity ;  but  roofs  and  towers  and  pinnacles  lay 
in  the  earth  under  huge  mounds  heaped  over  all 
like  graves  of  a  colossal  race,  and  it  seemed  as  if 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    247 

the  crumbling  arches  that  remained  would  long 
ago  have  fallen  too,  but  for  stout  branches  of  ivy 
binding  the  stones  together  and  sustaining  them. 
All  broken  lines  had  been  softened  and  beautified 
by  its  glossy  mantle,  glistening  now  at  every  fold 
in  the  light  of  the  one-eyed,  waning  moon  that 
rose  above  this  memorial  of  a  vanished  age  as  the 
intruders  drew  near.  Then  Einhard  whispered, 
while  his  companion  paused  for  breath  once  more : 
"  It  is  the  hill  of  Charlemagne." 

"  Hark  !  "  returned  the  dwarf,  with  a  warning 
gesture  ;  and  from  some  distant  point  within  the 
ruins  came  the  sound  of  a  horn,  in  low,  sweet 
notes,  faintly  blowing.  The  dwarf  advanced,  drew 
himself  up,  and  answered  the  signal  with  a  wild, 
unearthly  cry  that  echoed  and  re-echoed  through 
the  empty  arches.  In  a  moment  the  unseen  warder 
blew  his  horn  again,  and  then  all  was  silent  except 
the  rustling  of  the  leaves. 

With  swift,  noiseless  steps  the  messenger  re 
turned  to  Einhard's  side. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  he  whispered,  "  we  will  go 
in  together.  Hush !  not  a  word !  Only  when  I 
give  the  sign  speak  without  fear;  until  then 
silence." 

So,  hand  in  hand  and  silently,  they  passed  slowly 
on  over  black  bars  of  shadow,  through  grass-grown 
courts,  roofless  and  deserted,  —  now  following  some 
line  of  ruined  wall  to  climb  it  at  a  favorable  point 
where  the  matted  ivy  secured  their  foothold,  and 


250  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

the  knights,  with  one  voice.  A  hundred  swords 
flashed  from  their  sheaths.  All  were  alert  and 
ready ;  yet  no  light  came  into  their  faces ;  they 
still  slept,  moved  only  by  the  impulse  of  a  dream. 

The  king  alone  woke  to  life.  His  eyes  opened ; 
he  rose  in  his  place  and  looked  about  him.  On  the 
instant  all  was  still  again.  Then  he  spoke,  in  tones 
that  made  the  arches  ring. 

"  Messenger  from  without  the  gate,  what  is  the 
date  of  the  year  ?  " 

Einhard  looked  at  the  dwarf,  who  made  no  re 
ply,  but  gave  instead  their  preconcerted  signal; 
and  the  student,  comprehending  it,  rose  in  his 
turn,  and  advancing  to  the  royal  dais  knelt  at  the 
emperor's  feet  and  answered  him. 

His  noble  face  grew  clouded,  and  he  sighed  heav 
ily  as  he  addressed  once  more  the  throng  below 
him. 

"  Back,  comrades !     The  hour  is  not  come." 

The  swords  rattled  down  into  their  scabbards ,  and 
with  a  dull  clang  the  armed  men  dropped,  one  and 
all,  into  repose.  Murmurous  echoes  spread  through 
the  outer  courts,  swelling  and  subsiding,  as  if  a 
wave  of  the  sea  had  dashed  itself  to  pieces.  Then 
the  stillness  of  desolation  settled  over  all. 

But  the  king  bent  upon  his  new-found  messenger 
a  keen,  penetrating  glance  that  seemed  to  search 
through  Einhard's  inmost  soul.  Gradually  his  face 
resumed  its  former  calmness,  and  the  smile  re 
turned  to  it. 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    251 

"  The  hour  will  come,"  he  said  gently,  "  though 
it  be  long  delayed.  We,  who  reign  forever,  can 
read  men's  hearts  in  faces ;  and  in  the  face  and 
heart  before  me  there  are  signs  of  promise." 

"  In  mine  ?  "  said  Einhard,  trembling. 

"  Yes.  The  age  of  chivalry  is  past,  but  only  for 
a  season  ;  and  on  the  toilers  we,  who  wait,  de 
pend.  Not  he  alone  is  great  who  slaughters  ar 
mies.  To  wrestle  with  the  world,  and  conquer  it ; 
to  have  no  thought  that  is  not  half  divine ;  to  give 
the  thought  a  word  that  shall  vibrate  in  all  hearts, 
stirring  them  to  noble  deeds,  and  make  the  mean 
est  slave  a  hero,  —  this  is  to  be  greater  than  a  king. 
This  done,  the  earth  sweeps  back  into  its  golden 
age." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Einhard,  with  a  sigh,  "  what  man 
can  hope  to  hold  a  place  in  every  heart  ?  " 

"  None  that  will  not  strive  for  it.  What !  are 
there  no  mortals  who  have  put  on  immortality  ?  " 

"  Oh,  pardon  me ! "  replied  the  student,  as  he 
humbly  bowed  his  head.  "  I  speak  to  one  of 
these." 

With  a  gracious  gesture  the  emperor  motioned 
Einhard  to  a  low  seat  beside  him. 

"  Sit  here  by  me,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  me  some 
story  of  the  past.  For  I  am  restless  with  long 
years  of  waiting.  Only  labor  can  bring  happiness. 
Be  true,  then,  to  gifts  that  Heaven  has  bestowed, 
and  use  them  well,  however  men  reward  them  or 
despise  them.  Work,  work ;  and  work  again  ! 


252  DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES. 

God  grant  that  in  the  after  ages  unending  toil  may 
be  both  mine  and  thine ! " 

Then  Einhard,  half  from  memory  and  half  in 
verses  of  his  own  that  formed  themselves  without 
an  effort,  recited  a  legend  of  the  day  that  survives 
eternally  in  the  chronicle  of  Roland.  Little  by 
little,  all  the  light  of  the  hall  went  out,  and  the 
sleepers  faded  away,  one  by  one,  until  only  the 
watchful  eyes  of  the  dwarfs  were  left,  glittering 
like  glow-worms.  And  when  the  tale  was  finished 
the  king  sunk  to  sleep,  with  his  arm  upon  the  table, 
his  cheek  upon  his  hand.  Einhard  too  slept 
soundly ;  and  the  memorable  night  passed  on,  as 
all  nights  must,  however  memorable,  to  become  a 
mere  remembrance  of  things  that  were,  while  the 
light  of  a  new  day  stole  into  its  place  and  slowly 
illumined  half  the  world. 

Einhard  woke  to  find  himself  lying  alone  in 
the  sunshine  under  the  ruined  entrance  of  the 
crumbling,  ivied  wall.  He  beat  upon  the  door, 
but  could  not  move  it,  and  nothing  moved  with 
in.  He  turned  away  sadly,  lingering  and  look 
ing  back,  inclining  to  believe  that  he  had  only 
dreamed.  As  he  came  into  the  open  field  a  lark 
flew  up  in  a  joyous  ecstasy  of  song,  singing,  sing 
ing,  and  still  singing,  with  a  full  throat,  —  an  invis 
ible  rapture  of  the  blue  distance.  Then  Einhard's 
look  grew  lighter,  and  his  heart  leaped  as  he  went 
down  toward  the  spires  of  Mayence. 

"  It  was  no  dream,"  he  murmured.     "  It  was  a 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS.    253 

step  toward  the  eternal  goal.  What  need  I  care 
henceforth  for  pain  or  pleasure  in  this  narrow 
world  ?  The  nobler  life  will  come  hereafter ;  and 
through  one  poor  soul,  at  least,  the  appointed  hour 
will  not  be  delayed.  Oh,  emperor !  I  strive  for 
immortality.  Unending  toil  shall  be  both  thine 
and  mine ! " 


THE    END. 


RIEF  LIST  OF  BOOKS  OF  FICTION 

> 

PUBLISHED    BY    CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S 

SONS,   743-745    BROADWAY,    NEW  YORK. 


Mary  Adams. 

AN  HONORABLE  SURRENDER.     (I6mo,  $1.00.) 

"The  story  belongs  distinctly  to  the  realistic  school  of  modern 
fiction.  The  situations  are  those  of  every  day.  The  characters  are 
not  in  the  least  eccentric  ;  the  dialogue  is  never  extravagant ;  the 
descriptive  and  analytical  passages  are  neither  obtrusive  nor  too 
prolix.  The  sum  of  all  these  negations  is  a  charming  book,  full  of 
a  genuine  human  interest." — The  Portland  Advertiser, 

William  Waldorf  Astor. 

VALENTINO:  An  Hisiorical  Romance.    (I2mo,  $1.00).— SFORZA  :  A  Story  of 

Milan.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  The  story  is  full  of  clear-cut  little  tableaux  of  mediaeval  Italian 
manners,  customs,  and  observances.  The  movement  throughout  is 
spirited,  the  reproduction  of  bygone  times  realistic.  Mr.  Astor  has 
written  a  romance  which  will  heighten  the  reputation  he  made  by 
'Valentino.'" — The  New  York  Tribune, 

Arlo  Bates. 

A  WHEEL  OF  FIRE.     (I2mo,  paper,  SO  cts. ;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  The  novel  deals  with  character  rather  than  incident,  and  is 
evolved  from  one  of  the  most  terrible  of  moral  problems  with  a 
subtlety  not  unlike  that  of  Hawthorne.  One  cannot  enumerate  all 
the  fine  points  of  artistic  skill  which  make  this  study  so  wonderful 
in  its  insight,  so  rare  in  its  combination  of  dramatic  power  and 
tenderness." — The  Critic. 

Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen. 

FALCONBERG.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.50)— GUNNAR.  (Sq.  I2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— TALES  FROM  TWO  HEMISPHERES.  (Sq.  I2mo, 
$1.00)— ILKA  ON  THE  HILL  TOP,  and  Other  Stories.  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00) 
—QUEEN  TITANIA  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00). 

"  Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  possess  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness,  and  a 
drollery  that  are  fascinating,  and  yet  they  are  no  more  attractive 
than  they  are  strong  " — The  Home  Journal. 


RIEF  LIST  OF  BOOKS  OF  FICTION 

i 

PUBLISHED    BY    CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S 

SONS,   743-745    BROADWAY,    NEW  YORK. 


Mary  Adams. 

AN  HONORABLE  SURRENDER.     flOmo,  $1.00.) 

"The  story  belongs  distinctly  to  the  realistic  school  of  modern 
fiction.  The  situations  are  those  of  every  day.  The  characters  are 
not  in  the  least  eccentric  ;  the  dialogue  is  never  extravagant ;  the 
descriptive  and  analytical  passages  are  neither  obtrusive  nor  too 
prolix.  The  sum  of  all  these  negations  is  a  charming  book,  full  of 
a  genuine  human  interest." — The  Portland  Advertiser, 

William  Waldorf  Astor. 

VALENTINO:  An  Historical  Romance.  (I2mo,  $1.00).— SFORZA  :  A  Story  of 
Milan.  (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  The  story  is  full  of  clear-cut  little  tableaux  of  mediaeval  Italian 
manners,  customs,  and  observances.  The  movement  throughout  is 
spirited,  the  reproduction  of  bygone  times  realistic.  Mr.  Astor  has 
written  a  romance  which  will  heighten  the  reputation  he  made  by 
'Valentino.'" — The  New  York  Tribune, 

Arlo  Bates. 

A  WHEEL  OF  FIRE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  els.  •  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"The  novel  deals  with  character  rather  than  incident,  and  is 
evolved  from  one  of  the  most  terrible  of  moral  problems  with  a 
subtlety  not  unlike  that  of  Hawthorne.  One  cannot  enumerate  all 
the  fine  points  of  artistic  skill  which  make  this  study  so  wonderful 
in  its  insight,  so  rare  in  its  combination  of  dramatic  power  and 
tenderness." — The  Critic, 

Hjalmar  H.  Bqyesen. 

FALCONBERG.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.50)— GUNNAR.  (Sq.  I2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— TALES  FROM  TWO  HEMISPHERES.  (Sq.  I2mo, 
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—QUEEN  TITANIA  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00). 

"  Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  possess  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness,  and  a 
drollery  that  are  fascinating,  and  yet  they  are  no  more  attractive 
than  they  are  strong  " — The  Home  Journal. 


a         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  NEW  YORK  HOUSE.  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost  (I2mo, 
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has  not  alone  mental  discernment,  but  the  artistic  appreciation. 
The  author  and  the  artist  both  supplement  one  another  in  this  ex 
cellent  '  Story  of  a  New  York  House.'" — The  New  York  Times. 

Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 

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William  Allen  Butler. 

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of  Commerce. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.          3 

George  W.  Cable. 

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Erckmann-Cbatrian. 

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Octare  Tbanet. 

EXPIATION.  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost.  (I2mo,  Paper,  50  cents;  Cloth, 
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4          SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

James  Anthony  Froude. 

THE  TWO  CHIEFS  OF  DUNBOY.     An  Irish   Romance  of  the  Last  Century. 

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Robert  Grant. 

FACE  TO  FACE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25.) 

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Ed-ward  Everett  Hale. 

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Marion  Harland. 

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Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

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Augustus  Allen  Hayes. 

THE  JESUIT'S  RING.  A  Romance  of  Mount  Desert  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.-, 
cloth,  $1.00). 

"The  conception  of  the  story  is  excellent. " —  The  Boston  Traveller. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.          5 

8.  T.  W.  Hoffmann. 

WEIRD  TALES.     With  Portrait  (I2mo,  2  vols.,  $3.00). 

"  Hoffmann  knew  how  to  construct  a  ghost  story  quite  as  skilfully 
as  Poe,  and  with  a  good  deal  more  sense  of  reality.  All  those  who 
are  in  search  of  a  genuine  literary  sensation,  or  who  care  for  the 
marvelous  and  supernatural,  will  find  these  two  volumes  fascinating 
reading." — The  Christian  Union. 

Dr.  J.  G.  Holland. 

SEVEN   OAKS— THE   BAY    PATH— ARTHUR   BONNICASTLE— MISS  GIL- 
BERT'S  CAREER-NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Each,  ismo,  %i.a£  J   the  set,  $6.25. 

"  Dr.  Holland  will  always  find  a  congenial  audience  in  the  homes 
of  culture  and  refinement.  He  does  not  affect  the  play  ot  the  darker 
and  fiercer  passions,  but  delights  in  the  sweet  images  that  cluster 
around  the  domestic  hearth.  He  cherishes  a  strong  fellow-feeling 
with  the  pure  and  tranquil  life  in  the  modest  social  circles  of  th\. 
American  people,  and  has  thus  won  his  way  to  the  companionship 
of  many  friendly  hearts." — The  New  York  Tribune. 

Thomas  A.  Janvier. 

COLOR  STUDIES.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"Piquant,  novel,  and  ingenious,  these  little  stories,  with  all  their 
simplicity,  have  excited  a  wide  interest.  The  best  of  them,  '  Jaune 
U'Antimoine,'  is  a  little  wonder  in  its  dramatic  effect,  its  ingenious 
construction." — The  Critic. 

Virginia  W.  Johnson. 

THE  FAINALLS  OF  TIPTON.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  The  plot  is  good,  and  in  its  working-out  original.  Character- 
drawing  is  Miss  Johnson's  recognized  forte,  and  her  pen-sketches  of 
the  inventor,  the  checker-playing  clergyman  and  druggist,  the 
rising  young  doctor,  the  sentimental  painter,  the  rival  grocers,  etc., 
are  quite  up  to  her  best  work." — The  Boston  Commonwealth. 

Lieut.  J.  D.  J.  Kelley. 

A  DESPERATE  CHANCE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;   cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  This  novel  is  of  the  good  old-fashioned,  exciting  kind.  Though 
it  is  a  sea  story,  all  the  action  is  not  on  board  ship.  There  is  a 
well-developed  mystery,  and  while  it  is  in  no  sense  sensational, 
readers  may  be  assured  that  they  will  not  be  tired  out  by  analytical 
descriptions,  nor  will  they  find  a  dull  page  from  first  to  last." — The 
Brooklyn  Union. 

The  King's  Men : 

A  TALE  OF  TO-MORROW.     By  Robert  Grant,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  J,  8* 
of  Dale,  and  John  T.  Wheelwright.    (I2mo,  $1.25.) 


6          SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

Andrew  Lang. 

THE  MARK  OF  CAIN.     (I2mo,  paper,  25  els.) 

"  No  one  can  deny  that  it  is  crammed  as  full  of  incident  as  it  will 
hold,  or  that  the  elaborate  plot  is  worked  out  with  most  ingenious 
perspicuity." — The  Saturday  Review. 

George  P.  Lathrop. 

NEWPORT.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $I.25)-AN  ECHO  OF  PASSION. 
(I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— IN  THE  DISTANCE.  (I2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  It  is  one  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Lathrop's  style  that  it  appeals  to 
the  imagination  of  the  reader  by  a  delicate  suggestiveness,  which 
lies  like  a  fine  atmosphere  over  the  landscape  of  the  story.  His 
novels  have  the  refinement  of  motive  which  characterize  the  analytical 
school,  but  his  manner  is  far  more  direct  and  dramatic." — The 
Christian  Union. 

Brander  Matthews. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.; 
cloth,  $1.00)— THE  LAST  MEETING.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  clo'h,  $1.00)— 
IN  PARTNERSHIP.  With  H.  C.  Bunner  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00). 

"Mr.  Matthews  is  a  man  of  wide  observation  and  of  much 
familiarity  with  the  world.  His  literary  style  is  bright  and  crisp, 
with  a  peculiar  sparkle  about  it — wit  and  humor  judiciously  mingled — 
which  renders  his  pages  more  than  ordinarily  interesting." — The 
Rochester  Post-Express. 

Fit^-James  O'Brien. 

THE  DIAMOND  LENS,  with  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.00.) 

"  These  stories  are  the  only  things  in  literature  to  be  compared 
with  Poe's  works,  and  if  they  do  not  equal  it  in  workmanship,  they 
certair«1y  do  not  yield  to  it  in  originality. " —  The  Philadelphia  Record. 

Duffield  Osborne. 

THE  SPELL  OF  ASHTAROTH.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

Bliss  Perry. 

THE  BRpUGHTON    HOUSE.     (I2nv>,  $1.25), 

In  this  book  Mr.  Perry  has  presented  an  artistic  and  extraordinarily 
vivid  picture  of  a  New  England  town  in  summer,  with  close,  shrewd, 
sympathetic,  and  wonderfully  observant  studies  of  its  typical  person 
ages — the  quartette  of  persons  at  the  hotel,  "  The  Broughton 
House,"  with  whom  the  story  is  chiefly  occupied,  viewed  against  the 
background  of  the  villagers  and  the  natural  environment. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.         7 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

IN  OLE  VIRGINIA—  Marse  Chan  ant'  Other  Stories.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  There  are  qualities  in  these  stories  of  Mr.  Page  which  we  do 
not  find  in  those  of  any  other  Southern  author,  or  not  to  the  same 
extent  and  in  the  same  force — and  they  are  the  qualities  which  are 
too  often  wanting  in  modern  literature," — JN,  Y,  Mail  and  Express. 

Saxe  Holm's  Stories. 

FIRST  SERIES.-Draxy  Miller's  Dowry— The  Elder's  Wife-Whose  Wife 
Was  She? — The  One-Legged  Dancers— How  One  Woman  Kept  Her  Husband 
— Esther  Wynn's  Love  Letters. 

SECOND  SERIES.— Four-Leaved  Clover— Farmer  Bassett's  Romance— My 
Tourmalene — Jo  ;  Male's  Red  Stocking — Susan  Lawton's  Escape. 

Each,  1 2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  %i.oo. 

"Saxe  Holm's'  characters  are  strongly  drawn,  and  she  goes  right  to 
the  heart  of  human  experience  as  one  who  knows  the  way.  We 
heartily  commend  them  as  vigorous,  wholesome,  and  sufficiently 
exciting  stories." — The  Advance, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

STRANGE  CASE  OF  DR.  JEKYLL  AND  MR:  HYDE.  (I2mo,  paper,  25 
cts.;  cloth,  $1. 00)— KIDNAPPED.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  SI. 00, 
illustrated,  81.25)— THE  MERRY  MEN,  and  Other  Tales  and  Fables.  (I2mo, 
paper,  35  cts.;  cloth,  $I.OO)-NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  (I2mo,  paper, 
30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— THE  DYNAMITER.  With  Mrs.  Stevenson  (I2mo, 
paper,  30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— THE  BLACK  ARROW.  Illustrated  (I2mo, 
paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $!. 00)— THE  WRONG  BOX.  With  Lloyd  Osbourne 
(I2mo,  $1.00)— THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE.  A  Winter's  Tale.  (I2mo, 
paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.25.) 

"  Stevenson  belongs  to  the  romantic  school  of  fiction  writers.  He 
is  original  in  style,  charming,  fascinating,  and  delicious,  with  a 
marvelous  command  of  words,  and  with  a  manner  ever  delightful 
and  magnetic.  His  style  is  as  easy  and  as  confidential  as  that  of 
Defoe." — The  Boston  Transcript. 

T.  R.  Sullivan. 

DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES.  (I2mo,  Cloth,  $1.00;  Paper,  50  cents).— 
ROSES  OF  SHADOW.  (I2mo,  $1.00). 

"  Mr.  Sullivan's  style  is  at  once  easy  and  refined,  conveying  most 
happily  that  atmosphere  of  good  breeding  and  polite  society  which 
is  indispensable  to  the  novel  of  manners,  but  which  so  many  of  them 
lamentably  fail  of." — The  Nation.  "  His  style  is  clear  and  clean 
cut ;  his  characters  are  genuine  and  observed." — Saturday  Review, 


8         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

Frederick  J.  Stimson  (J.  5.,  of  Dale.) 

GUERNDALE.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY 
VANE.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— THE  SENTIMENTAL  CALEN 
DAR.  Head  Pieces  by  F.  G.  Attwood  (I2mo,  $2.00)— FIRST  HARVESTS. 
An  Episode  in  the  Career  of  Mrs.  Levison  Gower,  a  Satire  without  a  Moral 
(I2mo,  $1.25)— THE  RESIDUARY  LEGATEE;  or,  The  Posthumous  Jest  ol 
the  Late  John  Austin.  (I2mo,  paper,  35  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"No  young  novelist  in  this  country  seems  better  equipped  than 
Mr.  Stimson  is.  He  shows  unusual  gifts  in  this  and  in  his  other 
stories." — The  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Frank  R.  Stockton. 

RUDDER  GRANGE.  (I2mo,  paper,  60  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25;  illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Frost,  Sq.  I2mo,  $2.00)— THE  LATE  MRS.  NULL.  (I2mo,  $1.25)— THE 
LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER?  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$I.25)-THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50 
cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  BEE-MAN  OF  ORN,  and  Other  Fanciful  Tales. 
(I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25)— AMOS  KILBRIGHT,  with  Other  Stories  (I2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25). 

The  set,  6  vols. ,  in  a  box,  $7.50. 

"  Of  Mr.  Stockton's  stories  what  is  there  to  say,  but  that  they 
are  an  unmixed  blessing  and  delight  ?  He  is  surely  one  of  the  most 
inventive  of  talents,  discovering  not  only  a  new  kind  in  humor  and 
fancy,  but  accumulating  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  details  in  each 
fresh  achievement,  the  least  of  which  would  be  riches  from  another 
hand." — W.  D.  HOWELLS,  in  Harper's  Magazine. 

Stories  by  American  Authors. 

Cloth,  ibmo,5oc.  each;  set,  tovols.,  $5.00;  cabinet  ed.,  in  sets  only,  f/./o. 

"  The  public  ought  to  appreciate  the  value  of  this  series,  which 
is  preserving  permanently  in  American  literature  short  stories  that 
have  contributed  to  its  advancement.  American  writers  lead  all 
others  in  this  form  of  fiction,  and  their  best  work  appears  in  these 
volumes." — The  Hoston  Globe. 

John  T.  Wheelwright. 

A  CHILD  OF  THE  CENTURY.    (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"A  typical  story  of  political  and  social  life,  free  from  cynicism  of 
morbid  realism,  and  brimming  over  with  good-natured  fun,  which  b 
never  vulgar. " —  The  Christian  at  Work. 


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